


When We Were Young

by poeticandvaguelysweet



Category: Jurassic World (2015)
Genre: Childhood Friends, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-09
Updated: 2016-10-09
Packaged: 2018-08-20 10:11:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8245361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poeticandvaguelysweet/pseuds/poeticandvaguelysweet
Summary: Separated after decades, Owen and Claire find each other again.ANON: I just had an actually insane idea: Clawen AU where they have been neighbours since they were little and have grown up together/done everything together/fallen in love ect.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Okay fam,
> 
> I worked on this for a month and in that process it steered completely from the path I thought I had intended it for. To the anon who requested it; I hope this at least reaches some small form of expectation you might have held.
> 
> All love is accepted and desperately asked for after my life for the last couple of weeks. And as per usual, a super thankful shoutout to @bryc-dlls-hwrd; my partner in crime.

 

In the early days of spring they found themselves in the woods beside her house, building forts out of fallen branches and dropped tree bark. They lived out there until autumn brought the rain, ending the warm weathered fun that had kept them far and away from their problem free lives. 

They were nine and ten-years-old, revelling in new found friendship caught on the spark of their self discovered freedom. They still had to be indoors by half past seven but, from the minute they woke on weekends to the very last second they went to bed, Claire Dearing and Owen Grady were inseparable. 

The rain had begun to fall hard that week. Their path into the woods was slippery, dubbed forbidden by mothers who didn’t want muddy children and clothes. It was the end of warm sunny days, wholesome feelings as the sky turned gray, letting it rain, hail and pour. It didn’t stop him from taking her hand the second they stepped off the bus, bypassing their houses as he made his way towards their marked out path. Owen ran for the cubby they built in the summer despite the fact that his clothes were drenched, her hand freezing in his. 

They had done a good job, countless hours turned into labour, building the small structure that didn’t leak. It wouldn’t last the winter, or probably the rest of the week. But, it was still there for the moment. 

‘You’re crazy, Claire Dearing.’ His young voice reached to her, as she sat on one of the plastic chairs her mother had salvaged from a garage sale. Owen’s moments were tentative, slow, well thought out as he reached for her chin, thumb innocently touching the bloody split on her lip. 

He couldn’t help but shake his head. Claire’s mother would be furious when she saw it. Even worse was the story that went alongside the mark; fierce little Claire Dearing standing up to a vicious bully only to get punched for her efforts. She wouldn’t tell Owen why she was arguing with the older boy, only that it happened. Her lips were sealed in that regard. 

They sat in silence as Owen pressed a rain soaked cloth to her lip, hoping it would work like the numerous ice-packs he was constantly layered with from one injury or another. He was clumsy, sporty and a little too adventurous for his mother’s constantly worried heart. 

‘I don’t want you to go.’ She whispered, half jumping out of her seat as the heavy rain turned into thunder, the ground rumbling under their feet. Claire’s words weren’t about the storm, but rather something that had been growing between them for weeks. His father had been reposted, Oregon or something of the sort, meaning they were to up and leave Michigan in a very small matter of weeks. ‘I’ll be alone again.’ They hadn’t talked out it, other than Owen’s quiet admission, in the bedroom of his soon to be old house, that he wouldn’t be there for her birthday she had been excitedly planning. ‘I’ll be alone forever.’ He felt his heart crack in his chest. 

Claire Dearing was his best friend. Already, in his short decade of a life, Owen had been moved four times. The first two weren’t all that much of an issue, the boy too young to form special attachments to other people. The others were harder, making new friends - saying goodbye. Claire was the best. He was certain that they would be friends for the rest of their lives, building cubbies in the woods until they were old enough to build their own house. He was sure that they would one day have their own house, something big and beautiful, built from his own two hands. Designed from the pages of her mother’s magazines, filled with children he knew they would have. 

‘Mom says we can write letters.’ He offered, knowing it wasn’t the same. Her dad hardly wrote to her and he promised that too. Owen didn’t know much about Claire’s dad, he wasn’t there when they moved in. Her mom was busy for a little while, hardly ever home. The first time he met Claire, she was seven, he eight. Ms Dearing had knocked on their door one afternoon, her daughters by her side, asking apologetically if his mom could watch them for the evening. She had to work and they were hard on money. 

It didn’t mean much to Owen. Karen was nice, four-years-older than them and surprisingly intimidating in her age. He’d never been that close to someone much older, other than the occasional cousin or two, and had no intention of getting any closer. It was Claire who took his attention, green eyes worried as his mom suggested they go play in Owen’s room. Claire wanted to do her homework. She confused him like that. 

Claire was the smartest seven-year-old Owen had ever met. The girl came up with far more cunning ideas than he could ever dream of, but would stop all childish scheming to make sure her homework was complete, and correct. He usually watched, or waited at home twiddling his thumbs until she was done. Homework wasn’t really Owen’s thing. 

‘Nah ah.’ Owen argued, shaking his head as he watched the long line of her pout. ‘I’m going to marry you one day, Claire Dearing, I am.’ The tears were building in her constantly worried eyes. He liked her eyes a lot. In the matter of seconds since their first introduction Owen’s favourite colour went from _fast car red_ to _the green of Claire’s eyes._ He was set, from then on out everything had to be a myriad of shades of green. 

‘You promise?’ She asked quietly, bottom lip wobbling. Owen didn’t know what propelled him forward, instinct or the knowledge that he had seen his parents do it over and over and over again. Regardless, he leant forward and pressed a soft innocent kiss to her lips. 

‘I promise. You’ll never be alone again.’ 

[…]

‘Jane can you leave that report on my desk when you’re done with it?’ Claire asked, multitasking as she replied to an email on her phone, all whilst enquiring that her coworker make sure everything was back where it belonged for the morning. 

The other woman nodded as she passed, replying with a friendly _‘sure thing, boss_ ’ before Claire passed through the foyer and out the front doors. 

She was glued to her phone, the small electronic device her entire life force. The thing kept her job running 24/7 making Claire available to international clients at all times - apart from the eight hour window she took to sleep. Even Claire didn’t abide by those rules, proving to go above and beyond for clients regardless of the day and time. Her family hated that she worked too much. Her mother disliked to see Claire so busy, rarely carefree, excusing herself from the table to take a business call in the middle of dinner. Too many visits were cancelled or derailed thanks to Claire’s sudden, and often unprompted, change in schedule. 

Claire had always been book smart, but in her teens she pushed it to the next level throwing herself into her homework, swallowing nothing but all she needed for her education and beyond. It got her into Stanford, it saw her complete a business degree, find a paid internship at one of _the_ leading companies on the East Coast and all but a few months - if at most, a year - away from being promoted to Assistant CEO.

She was twenty-eight-years-old. It seemed that everything was on track. Her mother only grumbled under her breath when the topic came up, smiling widely and admitting how proud she was of Claire. She was proud, she would always be proud so long as her daughters kept pushing on with their lives. Leanne Dearing wanted her daughters happy, wholesome, satisfied. Claire attested that she was all of those things but her mother hardly believed her. Karen thought there was more to life than Claire’s job. The youngest of the two sisters only brushed the eldest off. Karen had the same job for ten years, the very one she got into after graduating with her bachelor of arts. She got married, had two kids and was currently in the process of considering a third. 

Sure, Claire’s job had changed, climbing the ladder as she progressed. She had no husband, no children and was content having it remain that way. She owned a beautiful apartment in Georgetown, and a semi steady string of lovers that waltzed in and out of her life. None of them stuck around long enough to see her family for the holidays mostly because Claire kicked them out. 

She didn’t need anyone and hadn’t done since she was a little girl. Even as adulthood progressed, slipping in curves across her once gangly figure, Claire kept her heart close. She didn’t take. She fooled around; yes. That was as far as it went. Her heart had been shattered enough in her youth to last Claire a lifetime. She was done with attachments, only keeping her mother and sister close. Sex was sex, it was a release, a vacant need, but not the harborer of long lasting relationships. 

Quietly, away from Karen’s presence, her hand on her youngest’s back, Leanne Dearing begged her daughter to move beyond the boy who was shipped away. Claire couldn’t let go. She wouldn’t. She didn’t know why she closed off her heart at that moment, exactly. Twelve-years-old and heartbroken, Claire vowed never again. She’d held up on that promise to herself but her mother, desperate to see her daughter happy and settled, wished she would let it go.

Her heart had calcified before she hit her teens, turning to stone with no promise of return. Karen liked to tease it would take Prince Charming to reconstruct her sister’s feelings again. Claire was happy for the challenge, but she would not get hurt in the process. 

The train was as it always was; busy, filled with characters Claire had no care for invading her space and compromising her relatively good mood. She ignored them as she always did, excited young girls chatting a few seats away as a man in the chair next to her threatened to take over his seat and her own. Claire held her ground. Manicured fingers tapped at the screen of her phone, working on her way home. 

Later, she would think of this evening in moments. Leaving work thirty minutes earlier than usual. The carriage she picked to sit in, the overbearing man beside her, the seconds she hesitated before standing, moving to the door of the carriage ready to disembark. The message that flashed on her phone, keeping her eyes down, and distracted. 

She focused on work; emails she could tap out before she got home to an empty apartment, nothing but her cat waiting for her. Claire contemplated loneliness on more than one occasion, staring at a wall in her apartment, wondering if she would be happier if someone else was there. The void within her was small, the want to fill it with human life; barely there. Claire got a cat. Curly Fries was relatively loyal. He liked to sleep in a ball against the small of her back, either beside Claire or on top of her. He barely made a peep, unless she fell behind on schedule - feeding him a single minute later than usual. 

If anything, Claire kept to a planner for her cat more than herself. 

Her favourite pair of stilettos - the very same ones she wore despite knowing they were on their lastlegs - wobbled more than they should have as she took a step towards getting off the train. Claire missed the way commuters watched her some, in their heads, begging for her to fall while others watched with bated breath. Only one moved. 

Had she not lost her balance, slight enough Claire barely noticed; she would not have collided with _him_. Had she left work on time, gotten the same train, she would have missed him entirely. Had she stood the second her stop was announced, and was ready, waiting at the doors; she would have stepped off without fault, maybe brushed his shoulder but would think nothing of it. 

Instead, she moved to exit the carriage as he stepped on. Claire’s ankles wobbled, body swaying with her misstep as the man, boarding, moved to catch her his instincts far more attuned than her own. Her hands grabbed at his bicep steadying herself with a slight grunt as the doors beside her slid shut.

‘Claire?’ The man asked, one hand on her waist, the other on her shoulder. She stepped back, disgruntled and ready to accuse him of making her miss her stop. Instead, pulling back, her hands dusting over her clothes, Claire found herself breathless. 

Standing in her personal space, disruptive camouflage pattern uniform on, duffle bag on the ground, where he had dropped it at his feet and the name _Grady_ printed across his right breast was a man Claire never thought she’d see again. ‘Owen?’ She barely managed to whisper, looking at him in shock and mixed annoyance. 

Something twisted in her gut as her eyes scanned over the adult face of a boy she once knew. Claire blinked, not quite believing the sight in front of her. Had it not been for the name printed to his uniform she would have ignored him entirely, but it was there, clear as day, not missing a single letter. The blue-green of his eyes was almost exactly as she remembered, the colour faded with age and a pain Claire didn’t recognise. 

‘That was your stop wasn’t it?’ He asked, foot kicking his duffle. Claire hummed, none too pleased. ‘Sorry ‘bout that, but you were gonna fall.’ He was sure of it, explaining the wobble in her ankle and certainty that she wouldn’t land on both feet on the platform, without a knee hitting the concrete. 

Claire hummed again, disgruntled. She was trying to put space between them, mental at least, as the train car was full enough that she couldn’t move away. When the train stopped for the first time since he boarded, Claire stepped off. She could feel Owen’s hand at her elbow, ‘What are you doing?’ She asked, turning to look at him on the platform, the doors of the train giving a beep to signal their closing.

‘Walkin’ you home?’ He shrugged, as if it were plain as day. ‘You missed your stop because of me. It’s gettin’ dark out, can’t have you walkin’ by yourself.’ She rolled her eyes at his chivalry, hardly impressed with his want to protect her. When he left, he never tried to protect her feelings. As children, Owen used to see it as a duty to walk her across the road in the dark, always by her side. He was taller than her, making his steps longer. The boy, even then, knew to reduce his pace so she could step in line. He changed everything about himself so he was on her level; everything but book smarts. 

Claire tried to protest, shaking her head and pleading that she would be fine to walk on her own. The city wasn’t as bad as it liked to seem, and in fact, she walked in the dark back to her apartment on more nights than he’d be fully capable of dealing with. It didn’t stop Owen from insisting. 

If he was anything like the young boy Claire remembered, he would only follow her anyway. 

Claire relented. ‘Funny, of all the people to run into. It was you.’ Owen thought aloud, expressing an interest in the fates and their funny ways. She tried to ignore him, knowing this station sat just as far from her apartment as the last, the walk ten minutes at most. ‘How’ve you been?’ He asked, a step behind her on the subway stairs. 

Claire scoffed. ‘Busy.’ He asked about her mother and her sister like they were still great friends, like he deserved to know the wellbeing of the two women who begged their daughter and sister to get over him. Claire answered him in singular words, short, snipped comments trying her hardest not to invest in a conversation. 

‘I’m sorry.’ Owen skipped ahead of her, somewhat out of breath in his attempt to keep up with her brisk pace, heels clacking on the sidewalk. ‘Did I do somethin’ wrong?’ He had stopped her in her path, standing in the way, forcing the sound of her heels to stop. 

Claire raised a critical brow, ‘You’re the one who left’. She handed to him easily, Claire Dearing was seemingly one to hold a grudge. Owen recoiled slightly, mouth poised open. Claire cut him off. ‘You never wrote, you never called, you moved, you didn’t care about the promises you made … you left me behind.’ She didn’t expect her voice to break, not over a twenty-year-old scar. 

Claire Dearing was strong willed and feisty, she relied on no one and no man, hardly ever did she need help with anything, or let a tear grace her cheek. Owen Grady made her weak.

‘ _I_ never wrote? _You,_ Claire, were the one who didn’t respond. One letter, that’s all you sent and when I sent one back I got nothing in return. I was ten, what was I supposed to do? Hunt you down?’ 

‘It’s what I did.’ She barely managed to get the words out. A few short months after Owen had left, Claire and Karen were sent to stay with cousins. It was temporary, while their mother worked days and nights trying to keep up on her mortgage payments. In their absence Owen had replied to her letter, apologising profusely for missing the party she had detailed to him perfectly in her correspondence. He tried, at age ten, to convey how much he missed her. Owen knew a simple _I miss you a lot_ would work but that Claire expected more. He had promised her a life time when they had only lived a decade. By the time Claire was able to respond, Owen had moved again; the little girl losing track of the boy. 

It took a year for Claire to work up the courage to call the Oregon house, a whole year before she decided that she missed him madly enough to call after him. When she was met with an answering machine that sounded nothing like her friend’s family, she hung up, leaving the line dead and silent for another dry spell. When she worked up the courage to call a second time, determined to ask where the Grady’s had gone too, Claire was met with the voice of a kindly woman who put her in contact with the one person who oversaw each families move. The man she spoke to was hesitant to give out the information he had. She wasn’t a relative, nor military, and he couldn’t see why he would give personal addresses to a little girl. Eventually, her gave in giving Claire a Japanese address for the Grady’s. She wrote another letter and once again it was _returned to sender_ leaving Claire in the lurch.

Insecurity wracked her eleven-year-old brain. Maybe he didn’t want to talk to her anymore. Maybe he had no intention of keeping up on his promises, they were just words, like the things her father said, the things her father couldn’t make good on either. 

Claire tried to ignore the eyes on her. Passersby watched the ill-tempered woman lightly disregard the military man only a step behind her. Owen payed them no mind, his eyes focused on Claire, watching her with each step she took marvelling at how similarly she marched like her nine-year-old self. 

She cleared her throat when they reached her apartment building, Claire’s back pressed to the door as she watched Owen carefully. His duffle sat on the step in front of him, Owen’s hands furling and unfurling by his sides. Claire knew Owen to be a fidgeter in moments of great nervousness. She had to reach deep for that memory, knowing it was hardly ever that Owen displayed nervous behaviour.

‘So, ah,’ Owen began, ‘Know anywhere I can get good take out?’ He tried for a cocky smirk, similar to the expression he had given her on the train, just a little less wonder in his eyes. Instead, Owen looked nervous. His stomach growled loudly enough that Claire could hear it, her eyes rolling with the sound. When was Owen ever _not_ hungry. 

Claire fidgeted in turn, uncomfortable watching him squirm. She nodded towards the house, ‘Do you want to come in?’ She hated herself for asking, for offering, for stepping aside once the key was in the lock. 

He hardly walked like the young boy who would take her by the hand and lead her into their next woodland adventure. He was a man now, military trained. Claire had missed the limp he walked with, too busy striding in front of him boasting an air of inconvenience as he followed behind, favouring his left leg a little too much for her liking. She wanted to ask, but the uniform and the duffle told her not to. 

She let him into her apartment with guilt flooding her belly, and shame clouding her mind. ’What do you feel like?’ Claire asked, moving around the kitchen bench to procure her array of takeout menus.

Owen wasn’t watching her. Instead, he was dumbstruck in her foyer, eyes tracing over every feature of her home. Her hands slid into the pockets of her tailored slacks, shoulders hunching as she reverted to the knockabout child he had known her to be. Her home was light, airy, mix match decorated with an eclectic eye. Claire would be lying if she didn’t admit to having an interior designer come move things around; but most of what the eye could see, in her modest apartment, already belonged to her. The stylist was more for _declutter_ and aesthetic than anything else.

Claire caught something twitch on his cheek, his smile soft and dreamy as he caught sight of her picture wall. The frames were all one thing or another, no two alike or from the same era. The content inside them was what was important. Pictures of her mother, Karen, the places they used to vacation as children, and the woods beside her home. There were pictures of Owen as a boy, Claire standing beside him; some of their tree houses, others of them caked in mud. Some frames held nothing, not even glass, only projecting what was on the wall behind them, while others - carefully - housed the life of plants. 

‘They’re from the woods.’ Claire told him, meaning the trees that turned forest which circled her home. The woods where they played for three years, the woods where he promised to never leave her alone, the woods where he made her weak. 

Larger frames housed artwork he didn’t recognise, great splashes of paint organised to look like something. But, it was her youth that took focus, specifically natures part in it. Owen was surprised - honoured - to be included. 

‘Don’t think _too_ highly of yourself.’ Claire shut him down, watching his twitching smile turn into a slight frown. ‘What do you want to eat?’ She was trying to decide if he fit in her home or not. He was just as out of place as the bits and pieces she collected. His memory hung on her wall, their fondest time as children echoing in everything she owned. It wasn’t his place to step into her home and make himself comfortable amongst her things; but it is exactly where he felt he should be. It pained Claire to acknowledge that he fit right in, his duffle beside the door, his feet itching to prop themselves on her hardwood coffee table. Owen always had a home with her, even after twenty years. She couldn’t believe the weak state of her usual tough exterior for letting him in so fast. 

Filling conversation was the hardest. Claire preferred to watch him when he didn’t know she was looking, crease in her brow as she tried to figure out why the hell he turned up _now._ She wanted to ask about the military; army. His camouflage was green, not the typical blue and gray his father used to awn. She didn’t want to know the answers that lay within that question, but she didn’t know what else to say. 

‘Your dad must be proud; you following in his footsteps.’ 

Owen hummed, shrugging his shoulders as he looked towards the window that only granted him the sights of brick at dusk. ‘It’s the only life I’ve ever known.’ Claire only nodded slowly, letting the silence drift over them as she nursed a glass of red wine between two hands. ‘If you tried to track me down, how come you never sent any more letters? Or called?’ He had a one track mind; always. 

‘I got _‘return to sender’_ so many times I started to question whether you were real or not.’ There was only so much she could tell him in one sitting, the heartbreak of being sent away, her mother not forwarding her mail. The agony that sliced through her, head to toe at the sight of the red stamp claiming Owen Grady no longer lived at that address. 

When she managed to track him down in Japan, aged twelve, Claire nearly saw herself into a lifetime of punishment if she even so much as thought to call the international number she had for Owen. Just like her letters, Claire was worried her call would go unanswered. She never tried to call. Her mother, although loving, begged Claire to cut it out. He wasn’t the only boy in the world, or the only friend; Claire would find others.

‘Besides, you were more than capable of sending me mail yourself. I never moved, not until college. Mom still lives in that house.’ Her fingers drummed against the glass. Claire narrowed her gaze, eyes twitching for a second as she watched the side of his silent face. ‘Do you remember what you said to me?’ She asked, curious to know if he remembered the promise she had been hung up on since she was nine-years-old.

He turned sea green eyes on her, catching Claire’s breath as she perched herself on the arm of her couch, her feet inches away from his thigh. Where was that little boy and the little girl he loved so dearly? Why did the universe have to tear them apart; why did they do it so unfairly? She watched the wheels click in his thoughts, the words he had said, the things he had promised, all tumbling through his head. He came up with it in no time at all, like the answer was sitting there on his tongue, begging to be told. ‘I promised that you would never be alone, ever again.’ He whispered, ‘I was going to marry you one day. Claire Adelaide Dearing and Owen Michael Grady.’ He scoffed at himself, rolling his eyes as large hands scrubbed over his face. ‘I had it all planned out in my head, god, we were ten!’ He stopped, forced a breath through his lips and turned his eyes away. ‘Had to be something, I’ve been stuck on that daydream for twenty years.’ Claire held her breath, watching him with rapt curiosity, soaking in every word. ‘I dreamed about your red hair on my pillow, lips on my skin, hand in mine. I was convinced I would build a house for you, sounds very _The Notebook_ now that I think about it. I wanted to keep you safe, even though I watched you throw punches at Bobby Miller for three years without consequence. I wanted to do stupid grown up things, like walk a dog and have babies. I wanted to be my parents, _with you.’_

Claire could feel her heart in her throat, beating steadily with mild panic. Her mother encouraged that she moved on from Owen, let him go and with it the far flung dreams of his promises. There he was, sitting on her couch, all too comfortable, telling her that he never stopped thinking about the life he had envisioned for them at ten-years-old. 

She didn’t know exactly what it was that made her slip forward, knees on the couch cushions, her glass discarded to the coffee table. Her fingertips barely grazed the fabric of his shirt when their lips crashed together, Owen surging into her with the need and want of two decades. Claire melted into him, Owen’s hand finding the back of her thigh, pulling her leg over his lap. She was straddling him in a heartbeat, hands tugging through his hair. There was no gentle and ease, it was rough, pent up absence threatening to break them apart. She kissed him like it was her only opportunity, heart swelling for the sixteen-year-old girl who worked up the courage to send him one last letter. 

His hands were huge, always bigger than hers, managing to almost reach the full width of her back as his fingers slipped beneath the fabric of her shirt. She purred at the contact, blood on fire as her hips twitched.

They were set for a collision course, Claire could see it already, Owen’s fingers climbing up her spine as his teeth bit down on her collarbone. A thin film of sweat had already started to soak her skin, breath caught in her throat, panting with each nip he made at her neck. Her heart rate was climbing, steadily getting out of her control as Owen’s affections slid down her chest, biting at her breast through fabric and all. Her breath caught, oxygen cut off for a millisecond as she felt her eyes roll. 

Quickly, they had gotten out of hand. Claire slipped her touch from his hard stomach, fingers skipping over the muscle there as she pushed at his chest. Her eyes were closed, mouth partly open as she tried to catch her breath. Claire’s phone buzzed, the chime specifically allocated to her favourite restaurants hitting her ears. She watched Owen’s face, trying not to notice that he was just as out of breath as she was. Her eyes caught his insecurely, the man pulling away from where his head was bowed at her breast. ‘We, um - we need to go get the food.’ 

He let go of her regretfully, hands slipping from her back as Claire pulled away. ‘You want to come?’ She didn’t miss the light growl in the back of his throat at the innuendo she hadn’t meant to suggest. A blush crept up her neck and burnt across her cheeks, as Owen gripped her hips in reflex. Claire climbed off his lap, asking her question again but in a different way. The restaurant was only around the corner, the walk five minutes at most. 

Owen followed suit, standing alongside Claire as she grabbed her purse and keys from the kitchen counter. They walked in silence, Owen mulling over his actions and whether he should apologise as Claire collected their food. He couldn’t help but let his mind wander to the touch and feel of her skin under his hands, her weight on his lap, the smell of her hair so close to his face. Her kiss was sweet like the candies they used to eat all summer and rough with the abandonment she had felt. 

On the way back, Owen’s phone began to ring loudly in his pocket. He had to shuffle to find it as he gave Claire an apologetic smile. ‘That the wife and kid looking for you?’ She remarked, making him frown. It was Barry, an army buddy he was supposed to be staying with clearly calling to check up on his friend that was yet to arrive. 

He answered it easily, greeting his friend with a happy cheer and a promise to be around later. ‘Hey Barry,’ Owen made sure to catch the man’s attention loud enough for Claire to hear, leaving the woman with no thought that there was a girlfriend on the other end of the line. ‘Do you remember that girl I told you about?’ He asked his friend, following Claire to the steps of her building. She looked back at him with a brow quirked, unable to hold back the smile in reflection of his. ‘You’ll never guess who is standing in front of me.’ She rolled her eyes, pushing the door open with her shoulder and letting him pass. 

‘You are still ridiculous,’ She mused, voice echoing in the hush of her building’s halls. ‘Exactly like I remembered.’ 

‘Exactly?’ He asked, quirking a brow and flirtatious smirk. 

Claire shrugged, ‘More or less so. The limp is new.’ She hadn’t meant to point it out, but if she had picked anything else about his manly physique he would catch her flustered, still hot under the collar and still burning for his kiss.

Owen copied her shrug, nonchalant as he grumbled. ‘Well, yeah, that’s new to me too.’ For the second time in the space of an hour, Owen followed Claire back through her front door. This time, his duffle was waiting for him, already at home, tucked around the corner. ‘Hey, does this reheat well?’ He asked, lifting the bag of food he held. 

Claire shrugged, ‘Yeah, it’s alright. Why?’ She barely managed to finish her short question, the two of them rounding into the open space when Owen placed the food on the counter and pushed her against the wall. Claire squeaked, losing herself immediately in his kisses, breath panting against his cheeks. For the first time in what felt like forever, Claire let go. She handed the reigns to Owen without knowing for certain that he could handle it. She trusted him even after twenty years, to see to it that she was loved properly, no need to go chasing her own release before he crashed and burned. 

Owen couldn’t pinpoint if all he wanted was to cover himself in every inch of her because of deep set feelings, or the fact that he had just returned from deployment and a steady stint in the hospital. It had been so long since he’d had a woman within his grasp, willing and eager. A moral voice battled in his head with one that didn’t care. He didn’t want to hurt her or take advantage purely because she was the first attractive woman who batted an eye in his direction. Owen never meant to, but the women he picked up after returning from base always ended up as sly one night stands. He didn’t want to do that to Claire. He had to trust that the instinct that would pull him out of her bed in the morning would know that this was Claire Dearing; presumed love of his life. 

He was addicted to her in a second, the sound of her breath, the slight purr she made when his fingers found a soft spot. He adored the curve of her hips that rolled up into her sides and became her ribs. He was drunk on her kiss, her touch, and the look in her eye. She grinned at him like the devil, challenge pursed on her lips. Her expression changed when he popped the button of her trousers, hand slipping past the waistband to cup her sex. Her eyes rolled when he made contact, his fingers twitching, her teeth sliding into his lip as he kissed her.

His clothes disappeared quicker than hers, Owen left in an undershirt and gray boxer briefs. She had shimmied out of her trousers, devilish smirk back in place, heels still on, shirt too albeit unbuttoned to her navel revealing the power blue lingerie she wore underneath. Owen was certain that he was salivating. He kissed a line from her lips to the valley between her breasts, slow, careful, precise as a hand lingered on her thigh, lifting it to his hip. 

She had both legs wrapped around his waist in a second, Owen holding her up off the floor, her heels dangling against the backs of his thighs. He sat her on the kitchen counter, struggling with the unfamiliar weight in his arms. She wasn’t heavy, he lifted more in the gym, but his back and injured leg weren’t ready for the ceremonious off routine exercise. Owen tried not to let embarrassment weigh him down, revelling in the sound of her skin hitting stone as her lips focused their ministrations on his neck. Her cheeks were red with heat and the slightest early appearance of a rash created by the friction of his stubble. Owen wanted to devour her whole. 

Claire directed him down the hall to her bedroom, her back turned to the place she knew as familiar, facing the man she had once considered giving her whole heart too. He left before she could, before she was old enough to realise her feelings. Instead, she locked it in a box and let it wither away. 

‘You can drop me,’ She told him, arms wrapped in a vice around his neck. They were in her room, Owen’s knees inches from her neck. She felt his hesitation, his grip flexing on her thighs. Claire wasn’t stupid, she knew something was wrong with his leg and had felt the unevenness of his gait. He was likely trying to find a way to get them on the bed in one piece. ‘Really, it’s okay.’ She loosened her grip, kiss pressed to his ear, arms and legs untangling. The tip of her toes graced the floorboards, Claire finding her feet with an easy smile. She kissed his lips gently, fingers on his cheeks before she threw herself backwards, jumping onto the bed with a childlike squeal. 

Owen followed suit, his body hovering over hers as he kissed his way from her thighs to her neck. She giggled like the young girl she had once been, Owen rubbing his stubble against her skin just to elicit a response. 

She threaded her hands in his hair, laughter turning to heavy breaths. He nipped at the skin of her breasts, lips on the soft lace. Owen’s teeth found her nipple through the fabric, biting down gently before laving it with his tongue after her shriek. 

‘We wouldn’t have worked, you know.’ Claire interrupted, thoughts spilling from her mouth the second she had a moment to think. Owen lifted his head, tilting it slightly to look at the woman who had propped herself up on her elbows. He almost didn’t want to take her seriously, chest flushed pink, rising and falling in a steady pattern. ‘You and I, all those years ago.’ He looked like a confused dog, head tilting left and right, eyebrow quirked. Claire sighed, ‘If you never left, if you stayed and - I don’t know - we started _dating_ at say, fifteen. We would have been lucky if we saw the end of Freshman year at college together. And, say we never lost track of each other. That my letters were never returned and you sent frequent letters regardless of if I responded or not. They would have stopped at some point. We grew up. We _would_ grow up, get over it, move on …’ 

He frowned at her slightly. ’But you didn’t get over it and move on. Neither did I.’ He was still marvelling at her, Claire Dearing, the girl who always kept him on his toes. She was setting up damage control, proving they wouldn’t last in order to save herself. And yet, Claire was the one who made the first move. She always was. His fingers drew circles over her hipbones, skating over the mesh panels of her high waisted briefs. ‘I didn’t stay in Michigan and we _did_ lose track of each other. But, we’re here right now - that’s gotta mean somethin’.’ Hell, he was in her bedroom - _on_ her bed - his body leaning over hers in light that leaked in from the hall. Everything smelt of lilac and lavender, a hint of earth, the slightest reminder that the vagabond little girl had not been left behind. ‘This _has_ to mean somethin’.’ Owen’s fingers trickled across her stomach, the muscles there jumping at his touch.

A frown creased the soft planes of her face, furrowing in her brow and pulling her chin down. That was where Claire was stuck. What did it mean that they had found each other now? She was so ready to forgive him for his silence, she let him under her skin and into her bed within two hours. Claire Dearing was not an easy catch by far, and yet there she was, undone and bound to be ruined for the second time by Owen Grady. 

‘Do you want me to go?’ He asked, moving to sit as Claire’s hands flew out to grab his arms. He returned his weight between her legs, elbows bracketing her hips as she shook her head. 

Claire stared at the brick wall to her left, teeth in her bottom lip. ‘I just, I don’t know. This is too much, too fast. I don’t - I don’t do this, Owen. I don’t let men into my bed like this. I just - _fuck.’_ She cursed herself, shaking her thoughts away as her head hung back. ‘I don’t know what I want and for the first time; I care about what happens here.’ She flicked a finger between them, rolling her eyes at herself as she watched his shoulder rather than his face. 

Claire’s voice was quiet when she admitted that she knew nothing about the adult version of Owen. Sure, he looked a little similar, sounded _exactly_ the same, his walk had changed. That was all Claire knew. As a child, Owen liked listening to rock on his dad’s cassette tapes and made friends with everyone he came into contact with. He lived off PB &J sandwiches with sprinkles and drank his weight in chocolate milk. He couldn’t spell, but could read almost better than she could. He often said he didn’t like math, but was secretly good at it. 

Claire doubted any of those things still applied. 

When Owen was eight, the first time she met him, he told her proudly that he would be a carpenter; maybe an architect if he felt he had it in him. Never did he mention the military or following in his father’s footsteps. In her home, his army designated uniform lay in a pile on the floor. 

She didn’t even know if he was on leave, or if he had left the military entirely. The duffle and concerned friend all hinted towards a temporary visit. He would leave again, he wasn’t local, there was no need to come back. If she let him fuck her, there would be no seeing Owen Grady so long as they both should live.

‘Claire,’ He started again, voice low. ‘If you’re not comfortable with this. I can go.’ Owen only reminded her for a second time. He didn’t want to overstep her boundaries, staying so long she finally caved. Nervousness had settled low in his belly anyway, replacing the arousal that had burnt there moments ago. 

‘I don’t want you to go.’ She whispered, just as she had twenty years ago. ‘You won’t come back.’ She was the same little girl he had always known, tougher exterior but her insides were still frightened and desperate for comfort. Owen left the space between her knees to lie by her side, his fingers locking with hers. 

‘Well,’ He sighed, spare hand on his chest. ‘It just so happens that I’ve been stationed here, in the city. An old buddy of mine is lending me a room in his apartment, it’s only a few stops from here. Due to my condition they won’t be movin’ me for a while.’

She curled into him, body pressed against his arm. ‘Condition?’ 

‘Bum leg,’ Owen lifted his hand to tap at his left knee. ‘I’m no good anymore. Only thing they’ve got for me is desk work.’ Her grip on his hand tightened. ‘Besides, we have modern technology now. There’s no excuse for me to ever lose you again.’ Owen kissed the top of her head, watching as Claire played with his fingers, quiet, pensive. 

‘I trust you,’ Claire told him despite having no reason to. He had broken her heart once before and nothing was going to stop him from doing it again. Regardless, she hooked a leg over his hips, her hands on his face, her lips on his. 

Their kisses were slow, gentle, like the moment was made out of glass and threatening to break. His hands on her were soft despite their large size and rough way he had handled her earlier. He was hesitant to explore this time around, unsure on where she would stop him. Their mouths met over and over, lips sliding against the others as Claire chuckled, her breath short between them. 

When she took his hand and held it to her breast, soft sigh falling from her lips, Owen realised he was playing the game too carefully. He was caught up in not overstepping her boundaries that he was neglecting her completely. 

‘Are you sure about this?’ Owen asked after a minute, Claire having pulled away to kiss a trail down his stomach, fingers toying with the elastic of his boxer briefs. The most important parts of her were still covered, Owen increasingly frustrated about that as he watched her, hopeful that she was serious about what they were doing. 

She pulled back, hand stroking along the front of his underwear as she sat on the backs of her legs. Owen couldn’t have imagined anything better. Claire was a goddess in alabaster skin, her red hair the colour of autumn draped on her shoulders. She grinned at him, tongue tracing her lip as her hands reached behind her back. ‘You might want to let your friend know you won’t be there tonight.’ She told him with a soft smile, eyes already devoured by lust. With that, she undid the latch of her bra letting the straps slip from her shoulders before she discarded it to the side of the bed. 

Owen sat forward, arms sliding around her waist as his lips finally made contact with the skin of her breast, tongue mapping the territory there. She purred, gasping with each surprise nip as a deep flush settled against her chest. 

She was on her back in a heartbeat, Owen worshiping her flesh with torturous kisses down her belly sending jolts of electricity up her spine. He did as she had done, feeling the muscles of her stomach jump under his lips as he pulled at her underwear. He kissed her once, twice, three times through the soft cotton, watching her with half lidded eyes before he pulled the fabric away. 

Owen wasn’t sure if he could call it a fantasy, after only having the desire for the last two hours. But, he felt like dreams had come true, an item checked off his list when her hips bucked off the bed, his tongue to her clit. No matter how long he’d had the wish, fulfilling it coated him in pride. Claire’s breath picked up dramatically, sounding like she could hardly breathe as he peppered his affection to the apex between her legs, hands holding her hips down, stubble scratching the inside of her thighs. 

She tugged on his hair when her body tensed, close to her release but not enough to let it go. Claire tugged him up her body as his hand coasted along her sides. She tried to pull off his underwear with urgency, movements fluid but uncoordinated, her frustration showing through the flush on her cheeks. He kissed her forehead fondly, hands reaching for hers. Each palm was kissed before Owen pulled his underwear off, Claire’s hands already reaching for what had been concealed inside. 

Claire twisted under him, reaching for her bedside drawer and pulling out a condom. He hissed at the feel of her fingers on his dick, the contact a little too much too soon. He wouldn’t last long if she kept toying with him, her touch barely there but entirely too present. 

Claire was impatient too, positioning him before she locked a leg around his hip and pulled him down. Owen’s groan was involuntary, every tightly wound coil - bar one - in his body relaxed the second he sunk inside her, Claire’s warmth enveloping him. 

The knot in her brow was almost immediate, Owen setting a steady pace. Claire’s nails were already dug into his back, promising to leave half moons and scrape marks in their path. His heart was in his throat, beating so fast he thought he might back out. There was a white blur in front of his eyes, a spark just in the corner, reminding Owen that he couldn’t remember if a nurse had advised him _against_ this for another handful of weeks. It was too late now, even if it caused damage Owen wasn’t bound to complain. 

He shook away the feeling, focusing on the rhythm of his thrusts and the feel of Claire’s fingers where their bodies were joined. He replaced her hand with his, watching the way she pouted to herself, eyes closed, all energy pressed between her eyes. 

Her body tensed, coil tightening, a sharp tingle spreading from her head to the tips of her toes. She continued to frown, teeth biting her lip. Owen kissed the tip of her nose, hand stroking her cheek tenderly. ‘Stop thinking about it, Claire,’ He mused, ‘Let it go’. His words didn’t work immediately, her toes rolling against his leg, her grip tightening on his back, one hand pushing at his hip, encouraging the change of rhythm. 

Owen dropped his head to her neck, leaving lazy kisses on the skin there. He was caught in not trying to leave a mark when she snapped, back arching into his chest, body convulsing. His name fell from her lips on a surprised shout. Her eyes rolled, lazy smile spreading across her cheeks as she tried to catch her breath. Owen kissed her roughly, still seeking his release as he flicked his thumb over her clit only to watch her body jump. 

Claire rolled them, changing positions so she was on top, her lips kissing his sweetly. Her hips rocked, lulling the rhythm Owen had kept up as she slowly drove it faster, his hands on her ass encouraging the new pace. She lowered herself to his chest, meeting his lips before Owen buried his head against her neck. 

It took a handful of thrusts and a swivel of her hips before Owen grunted sharply, her name faint on his lips as his body tensed before release. Claire stayed where she was, a hand stroking his hair as she laid her head against his chest. His fingers traced lines up and down her spine, his flaccid cock still inside her, and his lips pressed to the top of her head. 

‘I still wrote you letters, I just never had the courage to send them. I’m sorry that we lost contact, I’m sorry that it was so hard for you. I’m sorry that I made promises I had no right promising.’ His voice was quiet, almost sleepy as he whispered in the dark of her room. 

Claire propped her head up, looking him in the eye. ‘I don’t want to marry you anyway,’ She hummed, small smile teasing at the corners of her lips threatening to turn into laughter. ’Besides, I think I’m glad for it now.’ Her fingers drew circles across his chest hair, her eyes watching them occasionally before turning back to his gaze. ‘Sure, the sting of abandonment hurt. But, it made me who I am, and it gave us this and that’s something we might not have had as children, or pen pals.’ He kissed her, softly, pouring an emotion into her soul that he couldn’t quite place. His hands held her face, stealing her smile. Claire bit her lip, so different from the concentration she held before she climaxed. It was almost girlish and giddy. ‘I kept writing you letters too. They’re in a box somewhere. You were far more interesting to write to than my diary and surprisingly the only thing Karen wouldn’t touch.’ 

He listened to her closely, as she told him the things she would detail in her letters. At first it was kid stuff, birthday parties and school break. The older she got the more it started to be about life, her insecurities, the absence of her father’s call on her birthday. Claire admitted, quietly that one might have contained a sexual fantasy penned by her fifteen-year-old self in the middle of the night. She felt him twitch within her, smirk slipping across his face as he continued to stroke her back, her skin starting to cool. 

‘Where do we go from here?’ He asked her sleepily, his movements slowing slightly with his drowsy mind. 

Claire hummed, mind exhausted. She was completely spent, no thanks to Owen but also the day she had. ‘To sleep?’ She offered, grinning against his chest happy to remain there for a lifetime so long as the opportunity was handed to her. ‘We have breakfast in the morning, you go back to your apartment. Life carries on.’ 

‘Do we have dinner sometime?’ He asked, kissing her hair. 

Claire nodded. ‘But, not this weekend. My mom is visiting. I want to keep you to myself for a little while.’ His hand found her chin, tilting her face towards his so he could kiss her. 

‘You have me so long as you want me.’ Owen told her, watching his reflection in her eyes. They separated to get ready for bed. Owen disposing the condom in the bin before asking Claire if he could use her shower. She joined him, the sole purpose to wash the sweat from their skin as their hands wandered over the other. While Owen was happy to partake in a bout of shower sex, the droop of Claire’s suddenly grey eyes told him it was better that they headed for bed. She brushed her teeth and roughly towel dried her hair as Owen watched her slip into a camisole and shorts, the man returning to his underwear. His duffle contained a spare change of clothes but Owen had no interest in leaving her presence to head down the hall. Not when Claire had a spare toothbrush under the sink for him to use, her hand on his arm, his hip, gracing his back as she passed him.

[…] 

They did as she predicted, Claire curled against his chest Owen arms wrapped around her. They slept easily, drifting into a dreamworld completely content with their lives. There had been anguish there, Claire’s heart scarred from his actions, silver marks in the muscle that he was determined to heal. 

She woke to an empty bed, panic settling in her chest as rejection stung through her veins. Claire knew she should have expected as much. They were too much too fast, he wasn’t as invested as she so suddenly was. A part of her couldn’t blame Owen for getting up in the middle of the night and leaving. If she saw him on the street, she would only give him a polite nod and gentle smile. No hurt feelings, despite the fact that she felt as though she was bleeding out right there, in bed during early hours of Saturday morning. 

Claire sunk herself deeper into her mattress, pulling the covers over her head as she huffed. She tried to ignore the way the sheets smelt like him, or the reminder that he so graciously saved her from sleeping on the wet spot. He was a dream, wrapped up in her finest childhood memories, kind and devilishly handsome. As a little girl Claire thought nothing of Owen. He was her friend, there was nothing to think. As life moved past her, mind maturing, society telling her she had to fall in love and be loved; the image of a man she conjured was half impossible. And yet, there Owen had been, catching her before in inevitably broke an ankle. She wanted to hate him for leaving, but knew herself that they would fool around for a few weeks before she got sick of him and eventually kicked him out. Perhaps it was better that he left before she got too attached. 

Cursing the world under her sheets, eyes squeezed closed, Claire heard it; her pots and pans clattering, clanging as they hit the floor. A voice sounded with them, Owen’s shouting a swear to himself. If he was trying to be quiet, he had failed. Instantly, Claire felt lighter, her heart picked up its beat, _excited_ that he was still there. She pulled herself from bed quickly, mind itching to see him, to confirm he really was there making noise and likely mess in her kitchen. 

Wrapped in a thin dressing gown, Claire tiptoed down the hall. She watched him, perched on the dining table where he would eventually see her. He had dressed, partly, wearing the jeans he promised were in his duffle bag the night before. In the kitchen, he was attempting to cook. She had remembered Owen as clumsy; an active child involved in too many sports and always sidelined at some point due to a preventable injury. He was the same in her kitchen. Apt, but also a complete danger to himself and others who happened to get in his way. 

He was going to burn her apartment to the ground, Claire had no doubt about it. 

She cleared her throat easily, catching the man unaware. Owen spun to greet her, his smile just as glorious as Claire’s as he strode towards her. ‘Morning,’ She grinned as his hands looped around her waist, his body sinking to be on level with hers. He kissed her cheek, the tip of her nose, and the corner of her mouth before planting his lips on hers, his smile as bright as the eager morning sun. 

He hummed her greeting back, pushing her a little further onto the table. Claire couldn’t help the laugh that bubbled within her, leaning into his touch as Owen devoured her like he was a thirsty man lost in the desert; she a canteen of water. It had been so long since someone kissed her in the morning light, her mind still drowsy, their kiss lazy and familiar. Of course it was Owen who was still there when the sun rose, his smile just as glorious. For the first time, she wanted someone to be there when she woke. It made complete sense that it was Owen.

‘I was trying to make french toast.’ He told her, nuzzling the sensitive skin of her neck. 

Claire pulled away, her hands on his face, fingers stroking the stubble on his cheeks. ‘Looks like you weren’t succeeding.’ She chuckled, letting him tug her into the kitchen when Owen confessed that he needed a little help. 

The rhythm they found within her kitchen was remarkable. Owen asked and Claire gave, watching the man handle her kitchen with verbal assistance. He knew how to cook a mean batch of french toast, once he managed to figure out where exactly she kept her eggs. 

‘So, does your mom visit a lot?’ He asked, the two of them squeezed on the couch, her legs in his lap, plates discarded to the coffee table. Claire hummed around her last mouthful of orange juice. Leanne’s occupation of her daughter’s apartment was born purely from her daughter’s infrequent visits to her childhood home. They made a compromise, if Claire didn’t venture back to Madison every few months - to check in and be cared for - then Leanne would come to D.C.. Owen chuckled, it sounded exactly like the woman he remembered. She adored her children, did everything she possibly could for them. Slipping off the map wasn’t an option. 

‘I have to leave at eleven to pick her up.’ She told him, watching as the man checked his watch with a slight frown. Within half a minute Owen had Claire on her back, looking up at him from her couch cushions. She smiled at him with ease, her fingers sliding through thick dirty blond curls. ‘She would _flip_ if she knew you were here.’ Claire chuckled, thumbs on his ears, eyes watching his face. Leanne Dearing wouldn’t believe her eyes if she saw Owen Grady back in her daughter’s life. 

Owen hummed, ducking his head to kiss her. ‘I wouldn’t blame her.’ He still couldn’t believe his luck that he had found her unintentionally. He woke in the middle of the night, convinced he was dreaming until he tugged her closer, the smell of her shampoo infiltrating his nose as she sighed in her sleep. He had to pinch himself anyway, not sure that he hadn’t been killed in Iraq - the following months all a dream.

His sweet humoured kiss turned passionate in an instant, Claire fighting for control as her hands slipped past the waistband of his jeans, fingers digging into his ass cheeks. Owen smirked, as if he was accepting a challenge, his teeth sliding into her bottom lip before he let it go. 

Claire was even better in silk than he could have imagined. His hands slipped across her edges, committing each curve to memory as he tried to savour the moment despite how little time they had.She wasted no time in pushing off his jeans, briefs and all, a leg hooked over his hip. He broke their contact to pull at her pyjama shorts, tugging them down slender legs before letting them fall to the floor. 

It was quick and rough, skin slapping against skin as he groaned with each thrust. They were anything but quiet, panting breaths filling the air, littered with moans, grunts and the occasional slight squeal from the back of her throat. Owen half expected a tornado to roll through her apartment, even that wouldn’t stop them, her nails leaving crescent moons on his skin, his lips sure to leave a bruise. 

He shuddered his release, kissing her cheeks with her name on his lips. Claire followed almost immediately, back arching off the couch, eyes closed, frown in place. He was starting to adore the concern on her features when she came, his thumb trying to press the lines away. 

Owen pressed a kiss to the tip of her nose, ‘Text me when it’s okay to come back’. He teased, watching the smile creep across her face, eyes still soaked in lust. She nodded, leaning up to kiss him softly. She would send him a message the second her mother was gone. 

[…]

‘Are you sure there’s nothing you’re not telling me?’ Leanne Dearing was nothing but persistent. She all but harassed her daughter on their trip from the airport back to Claire’s apartment. There was something different about her daughter, an air that screamed happiness far greater than Claire had ever experienced. Leanne was determined to get to the bottom of it. It was clear that Claire’s good mood had something to do with someone else, the dishes in the sink proved it, evidence left behind and completely forgotten. 

Claire had run about the second they got in the door, picking things up and hiding them away before fluffing the cushions on the couch. Never had Claire’s apartment been out of shape for her mother’s arrival. It was always perfect, everything in it’s place. 

Her daughter only rolled her eyes at Leanne’s incessant questions, prying into a side of her life she didn’t want to know the details of. ‘Are we going to lunch or do you want to search my apartment?’ Claire teased, levelling her mother with an impatient look. 

Leanne only gave her daughter’s arm a pet, smiling knowingly. ‘I only want to see you happy, Claire.’ She waited a beat, ‘Are you? … Happy, that is?’ Claire rolled her eyes, biting back her grin as she ushered her mother out of the door. 

She thought their weekend would be easy. Entertaining her mother as she did, on the sunny streets in Georgetown. Leanne loved it by the Potomac, happy to walk with her daughter every morning when Claire usually ran. She would fill the two afternoons they had with cafes and longer strolls, popping in and out of boutiques as Leanne shopped. 

The last thing Claire expected as she and her mother were arguing about the ins and outs of her love life before dinner, was a knock at the door. Claire didn’t move from the kitchen fast enough, her mother mid-sentence about finding the right man as she wandered towards the sound.

‘Honestly, Claire. You work too much, that’s your problem, if you weren’t married to your job …’ Leanne called out, trailing off as she pulled the door open. 

Owen could hear them from the hall, easy smile filling the spaces on his cheeks. Leanne and Claire used to bicker like crazy when she was a girl, stubborn streak flaring whenever her mother said no. Never had they been malicious, or purposefully chose to rile the other up. It was just how they interacted. 

He was sure, when the door opened that Leanne Dearing hadn’t changed in twenty years. She was still the small, older woman he knew who pumped him full of cookies and instead of asking him to look out for her daughter; Leanne asked Claire to look out for him.

The woman stared at him for a second, blinking as he smiled softly. ‘Ah, is Claire home?’ She was going to kill him, he was sure of it. Owen promised to stay away and had every intention to do as much, but he was sure he had left his phone _somewhere_ in her apartment. 

Owen was sure Leanne didn’t recognise him, the memory of his face outdated by twenty years and likely long gone. Her lips quirked in a similar way to Claire’s when she was onto something, smugness painting itself across her features. ‘Owen Grady as I live and breathe,’ Leanne grinned, rushing towards him to give the man a hug. He accepted it willingly, the woman shorter than his shoulders as she muttered disbelief. 

Claire rounded the corner, stuttering as she stared at them. Owen shrugged, ridiculous smile on his lips as he mouthed an apology. The game was up, there was no use hiding him completely as her mother turned to her, half scandalised. 

‘How long have the two of you been reconnected?’ Leanne turned to her daughter, hand on Owen’s arm as she looked between them both. 

Claire shrugged, ‘An afternoon’. She glared at Owen, trying to convey a need to not reveal everything to her mother. The last thing she wanted was Leanne all over their fledgling relationship that was likely not to last any longer than a handful of months. He would grow sick of her, Claire was sure of it. She wasn’t the little girl she used to be. If her mother got involved with their relationship there would be no telling how it would end. 

Leanne hugged him again, a hand rising to his cheek as she absorbed the way he looked. Owen Grady, a grown man, she’d never have believed it. She watched that boy play in her living room for three years, plotting adventures with her youngest child. 

Owen and Claire had loved so freely as children, giggling in pillow forts, or racing each other up the street. It wasn’t the same love adults knew, but a childlike kind, where he grabbed her hand before running off, and she duly put up with him. Leanne knew they would be separated eventually, his father was Navy, there was no promise that he’d be around forever. When the last day finally came Claire was so distraught Leanne thought she would never recover. She did, eventually, after turning her heart into a patchwork of broken pieces, adopting a new personality for herself so she’d never be hurt again. 

It was almost a dream to see him again, like the fates had intervened in their lives, blessing them with each other for a second time. They had to have something good to be so lucky. Over her head, where they thought she wasn’t looking, Owen and Claire shot looks at each other. Leanne saw it all, just like when they were kids, pretending to be asleep on the living room floor instead of sneaking snacks. 

‘Well,’ She hummed, all knowing smile sliding across her face. ‘So long as you’re being safe.’ She implied, watching them a little closer as a blush crept up their necks. The tension in the room built, thick enough to suffocate even with the door open. There was no doubt in Leanne’s mind that her daughter had slept with Owen the first opportunity she got. The older woman couldn’t blame her. 

Claire’s cheeks burnt red, her eyes snapping from Owen to her mother as she glared. ‘Mom!’

When Leanne asked if he was staying for dinner, Claire looked as though she was ready to scream. It was Owen who held his hands up in defence, smiling at her softly. ‘Ah, no, Mrs. Dearing, I’m just here for my phone.’ He slipped past Claire, a hand not so casually gliding across her hip as he moved for the couch, knowing he’d left it there somewhere. He found it on the floor, underneath the couch, on his hands and knees as Claire stood by ready to burst a vein. 

Device in hand, Owen waved it at both women, trying hard to break the hard stare Claire was still throwing his way. ‘Well, best be off then.’ Owen tried to break the silence, accepting the hug Leanne Dearing reached for before Claire followed him out her front door. ‘Sorry.’ He grimaced, ‘I knew it had to be here, and I didn’t have your number.’ He shrugged, how else was he supposed to know her mother thad gone for the weekend if he didn’t have his phone and she didn’t have Barry’s number. ‘I kinda thought you’d answer the door.’ Owen rubbed at the back of his head, watching a small smile fight its way across her cheeks. 

‘You’re an idiot,’ Claire told him, smile still in place. 

‘But, I’m your idiot?’ Owen asked, head tilting to catch her gaze as he bent his knees to drop to her height. Claire only shook her head with a laugh, Owen’s fingers finding hers as he tugged on her hand. 

She pressed up on her toes ever so slightly to greet him for the kiss he was initiating. It was short, sweet and painfully fleeting as Claire stepped back, tilting her head. ‘You have always been my idiot.’ In a different sense than what he had meant. Owen was a smart kid, just never as smart as Claire and his clumsy nature, not to mention complete ‘sugar high’ tendencies had him run on the ‘idiot’ side of life. At least, he had always had that term thrown in his direction, usually huffed by an impatient young Claire. 

Owen kissed her cheek softly, waving his phone in his hand for second time before making his excuses. Her mother was sure to be standing with her ear pressed to the door, desperate to eavesdrop. Claire watched him move towards the stairs, gait uneven thanks to his limp, until he disappeared out of her line of sight. 

‘You _are_ being safe aren’t you?’ Leanne asked the second Claire slipped back through the door. Arms crossed over her chest, she sat perched on the arm of the couch, all knowing smile on her face. ‘Not just with your emotions, but - you have condoms around here somewhere, right?’ Claire blanched, she hadn’t exactly been uncomfortable discussing sex with her mother — it was just _sex_. Discussing Owen with her mother, on the other hand was something that had Claire wanting to bolt from the room. Leanne knew him, she adored him, she encouraged Claire to get over him. 

‘How the hell did you know?’ Claire thought they were being subtle. 

Leanne laughed, nearly falling from her perch as she watched her daughter’s face go from white to red hot. ’Oh please, you were making sex eyes at each other over my head. Glad you’re not denying it.’ She teased, Claire slumping onto the couch next to her. ‘He looking after you?’ Leanne asked, tone dropping from humour to seriousness as she watched her daughter carefully.

Claire nodded, teeth in her lip. ‘It’s really only been an afternoon, Mom.’ She deflated, ‘I didn’t _want_ to let him in. But, he - I don’t know. Got under my skin? I couldn’t believe he was standing there. I don’t know.’ 

‘He hurt your heart, Claire Bear. I know he was a little boy and he didn’t have much of a say in it. But, that pain was great and it broke you down. I don’t want to see you go through that, ever again. Are you sure about this?’ Leanne, naturally, was protective of her daughters. The way in which Claire broke down slowly, each year without a letter or call from Owen, was almost one-of-a-kind. Their relationship was something else but in it’s process, it destroyed the little girl Leanne nurtured and loved. Claire was harder for it, stronger, less patient. She wanted everything on her terms, no extensions. Never did she let someone into her heart after that. 

Claire shook her head. ‘It just happened.’ She couldn’t deny that he made her feel spectacular, a light in her chest, the weight there gone. In a single evening Claire no longer felt cold, like something had set her alight, keeping her warm. It was Owen, no doubt about it. She had her reservations, her game plan prepared. It would take the smallest of signals, their getting too comfortable for her to pull the rug out from under him, to send him packing before he could say goodbye again. Even now, thinking about it ahead of time Claire didn’t want to go through with it but she knew she wouldn’t last if he walked away. 

She was too high maintenance. Claire knew that already, career driven and controlling. She was independent and clear of mind, she knew what she wanted and once her focus was on it; Claire wouldn’t let go until it happened. That was intimidating not only to men, but her own family. While Owen seemed to enjoy the thrill of their connection now, once he settled into her rhythm, he wouldn’t like what he saw. Claire rarely stopped. She was work nonstop, and on the odd occasion she had time to relax, it was with Curly Fries - the cat Owen hadn’t even noticed yet - curled on the couch, watching a movie and drinking a little too much red wine.

Owen would want to go hiking, beach walks, and camping vacations. He’d want to see more of the world, and eat incredible food. He’d expect her to put down the phone and have a conversation, or sit quietly and read a book. He wouldn’t like her business galas, nor the people she considered friends. Owen wouldn’t like her job, or her lifestyle, eventually; he wouldn’t like her. 

‘What if I’m not as great as he thinks I am?’ Claire whispered, bottom lip wobbling as her mother filled the space by her side. It was clear, so far, that Owen thought she hung the moon and stars, threading each one individually before casting them out into the dark skies each night. She was no ice-cream on hot days, or the warmth of a gooey s’more in the dead of winter. She was bland, boring, store brand cereal he wouldn’t usually look at. 

Claire Dearing was not insecure, nor was she weak or feeble minded. She did not care what men thought, women either. Owen Grady turned her into every possible contradiction of herself, snapping her strings like a puppet. Claire just hadn’t realised it was to set her free rather than break her.

Leanne scoffed, ‘That boy loved you when he was eight-years-old. Sure, he may have grown up a little, but, I bet he still loves you at thirty-one.’ Claire’s mother only wanted her daughter happy, wholesome, satisfied. She didn’t know much about the boy now that he was grown, but Leanne remembered his finer moments in childhood, so determined to impress Claire, he’d lasso the moon. All Leanne wanted was for her daughter to acknowledge the risk she was taking and how it had hit her the first time. She knew Claire had a taste for self sabotage.

‘It’s only been a day, can we not talk about love?’ Claire asked, trying to sniffle away the emotion that built up in her. She had always been good at making decisions, still was. Things concerning Owen were always a blurred line Claire tossed and turned at. For the most part, she knew two things for certain, first; Claire would text him when she dropped her mother off at the airport the following afternoon, and second; they would have sex again. 

[…] 

She knew better than to wrap herself in him. Claire did it anyway, filling the empty spaces of her life with Owen. It was simple, take out dinners and reminiscing on her couch. He took her out after her mother left, to a small, nothing-fancy-restaurant. They barely made it through her front door before Owen had shed her of her clothes. 

Claire shouldn’t have committed him to memory, fingers running over each and every scar, mapping out his injuries with her fingers, mouth, and tongue. She doomed herself the second she counted every rib and memorised the rise and fall of his breath. There were no complaints. Just as she had painted him in her mind, Owen did the same, counting each and every freckle on her cheeks and shoulders, the curve of her hip, and the crease in her brow. He marvelled at a small scar she had beside her elbow, remembering the day she got it, silver mark still there in reminder of her childhood.

After four weeks, she was covered in bruises, some bright and new, others faded and old. Each and every one covered all the best parts of her. Purple marks where he had claimed her breasts, her inner thigh, even the slight curve of her stomach. She looked like patchwork, modernist art with it’s splotches of undetermined marks. Owen was only impressed with his work, sly smile creeping across his lips as he added another love bite to the underside of her left breast.

He had marked her and that, seemingly, was the end of it. 

[…]

‘Owen, it’s 5 o’clock in the morning, what on _earth_ are you doing?’ Claire asked, voice tried, first rubbing at her eyes. She had been the one to let him in, when the buzzing of her phone became too much to ignore. He kissed her cheek, her nose and then her lips before pushing a cup of coffee into her hand and disappearing down the hall. 

Currently, Owen was ransacking her wardrobe, crouched at the bottom, digging through her shoe collection. She had to give him kudos for the gentle manner in which he handled her possessions, keeping her neat order in tact as best he could. When Owen found his treasure, an old pair of timberlands worn and loved like she should have been, he turned to her with a triumphant grin. 

‘We’re going on an adventure!’ He beamed, making the woman groan as she threw herself back onto the bed, coffee mug still in hand and upright. Owen took the drink from her, discarding it to the floor before he climbed over her, kissing his way up her cotton clad body before he reached her mouth. He nuzzled at her neck, low noise in his throat making the man sound like a needy puppy. ‘It’ll be fun,’ Owen promised, ‘Just like old times’. 

Claire only groaned again, eyes squeezed shut as she whispered a slight wish for him to not be real. Owen kissed her cheek, chuckling against her ear as his body shifted over hers. ‘I’ll tell you what,’ He started, the heavy thunk of a shoe hitting the floor. ‘We snooze for another hour, maybe two and _then_ we’ll go on our adventure.’ Owen settled beside her when Claire hummed, nodding her head as she curled her body into his. 

She was warm and for Owen, that meant the world. He hadn’t thought himself as tired when he made his way to her apartment before the sun rose completely, but with Claire’s hand on his chest, and a leg thrown over his, he was suddenly drowsy. 

They slept for an extra hour until Claire managed to wake properly, stretching the sleep from her body. ‘Breakfast?’ She asked, fingers trailing down his cheek. Owen hadn’t shaved in a week, the stubble starting to irritate her skin, leaving Claire to contemplate whether she liked it or not. 

Owen shook his head. ‘We’ll get something on our way there.’ His hand tapped her thigh, sounding like a slap as he encouraged her to get dressed; something outdoors appropriate. No business wear. He watched her fish out a pair of blue jeans, sliding them up her legs as she rummaged through a drawer. Outfit Owen approved for their activity, socks and shoes in hand, Claire bustled them out the door. 

They stopped for breakfast in Chevy Chase, Claire admiring the neighbourhood as they ate. She didn’t ask him where they were going, or what they were doing. Instead, Claire gathered her own intel. It wasn’t the hardest task ever handed to her, old shoes on her feet, comfortable clothes, the promise of an adventure. She still didn’t know where they were going, but guessed it had something to with a hike. 

The Rock Creek Regional Park wasn’t new to her. Claire didn’t consider herself as one with time for parks, let alone those that housed lakes and the promise of adventure. She ventured out there when she could, just to sit and breathe for a minute before returning home. She wasn’t about to tell Owen this, the man trying to surprise her with something thoughtful and unique to their past. Owen took her hand with ease, locking his fingers with hers as they studied the large map situated at the park entrance. 

‘What’s the plan?’ Claire asked, unable to keep the smile from her face as she stood beside him. 

Owen hummed, ‘Adventure’. He tugged on her hand pulling her off to the left. 

It wasn’t the most extravagant hike Claire had ever been on. In fact, they likely had more adventure in the woods near her Madison home than what they had in Montgomery County but Claire wasn’t about to complain. It felt like them. The air was fresh and the scenery was bright like it was on display just for them. In the distance children laughed, but beyond that they were alone on the trail Owen had chosen. 

He didn’t have that grand of a plan, only intended to walk them in circles while he held her hand. Claire didn’t mind, as she breathed in the fresh air and took in the trail around them. They walked slowly, until they completed the trail, circling the lake before they reached their starting place. 

They ate lunch on the grass, Owen marvelling at her hair in the sunlight. ‘I know this isn’t your usual pace.’ He hummed, leaning back on his elbows as he reclined in the light. Claire watched him, her eyes travelling the length of his body as she shrugged. 

‘I come out here quite a bit actually,’ She grinned, watching as his face contorted, his surprise seemingly ruined. 

‘Why didn’t you tell me?’ He gaped, blubbering through his question. He had felt like an idiot all of a sudden, pointing out the age of trees as they passed them, in wonder of the place he had never been. Owen couldn’t assume that she had never been to the park, not after Claire had lived in D.C. for a small handful of years. But, he was surprised she didn’t mention it when they arrived. 

Claire shrugged, ‘I wanted to enjoy it’. Her brow furrowed. ‘Was that a reasonable thing to do with your leg?’ Owen hummed, shrugging as if it were no big deal. They had walked for an easy two hours, his doctor wouldn’t have agreed but for the moment Owen wasn’t complaining. 

Claire shook her head, scolding him lightly as she leant towards him; kiss pressed to his lips. Owen smiled beneath her touch, hand finding it’s place on her back as he tucked a leg between hers. He flipped them just to hear her shriek, Claire’s laughter lifting into the trees. 

A passerby called to them, as Owen peppered kisses across her cheeks. ‘Keep it PG.’ He felt her skin flush under his touch, her laugh still loud but slightly embarrassed. 

They moved from the park to the car, Claire’s teeth in her lip as she slid her legs into his lap knowing full well it was dangerous. Owen didn’t complain, only kept a hand to her thigh, squeezing when she thought to pull away. 

The warm sun was still soaked into her skin, leaving Claire to smile softly at how good she felt. She didn’t get out nearly enough to feel like that, and here was Owen, forcing her out for the day, encouraging sunshine play. She would be sore in the morning. They walked further than Claire would have on her own, muscles already starting to sing their protests. But, she did it all with Owen, the man constant company plied with jokes and stories that left her in stitches. 

It helped that he looked good behind the wheel of her Mercedes, the man completely at home in her car and her life. Claire wasn’t about ready to ask him to leave either. Content with the silly, sun soaked happiness that wanted her to do nothing but remain in his company until the end of days. 

[…]

Six weeks and she was ready to give herself over to him. Claire would happily commit to forever in the dark of her bedroom, Owen’s calloused hands on her soft skin. She knew better than that, and yet, there had never been bliss like the way she felt. All the same, Claire was waiting for the other shoe to drop. She was happily head over heels and on the brink of commitment, trapped in a honeymoon phase she knew they would eventually snap out off. She was going to unintentionally self sabotage at some point, Claire just didn’t know when. 

‘I still can’t wrap my head around it,’ Owen chuckled, bottle of beer in his hand as they lounged on her sofa in the middle of the week. ‘Karen and Scott Mitchell. I thought she hated him?’ It was no surprise that Karen eventually came up in conversation. As a teenager, Karen took no prisoners. She preferred to bite the heads off boys rather than kiss them, Scott included. In fact, of all the kids in her graduating class, Scott Mitchell was the last anyone suspected Karen would end up with. 

More compelling was the idea that she had children. ‘The youngest, Gray is eight.’ Claire flipped through the photo album she had pulled out, showing Owen pictures of baby Gray. ‘They’re trying for a third, but between you and me it’s just an attempt to save their marriage.’ Owen raised a brow, mouth poised, ready to ask why Claire thought that exactly. Her phone rang, interrupting the easy evening they were in the middle of enjoying. It wasn’t the first time Claire’s phone drove a wedge. 

She answered it without hesitation, apologising softly as she pulled herself from the couch. Owen watched her leave the room, moving for her office where her laptop lay. He stared at the pages of the photo album, studying the image of twenty-two-year-old Claire awkwardly holding her newborn nephew. She could have passed as the boy’s mother, the happy smile on her face not all for the camera. Kids looked good on Claire, despite her want to not have any. At least, that was her decision as a girl. Owen didn’t know if it had changed. He couldn’t help a grin at a specific image, Claire holding Gray, her nephew, Zach standing kneeling on the back of the couch behind her, his hands in her copper hair. They looked like complete chaos; blissful but messy. 

When she didn’t come back after twenty minutes Owen flicked on the TV knowing there was a game on that could help pass the time. Owen was starting to feel like he had to fight for her attention. He understood that work was important, but the constant interruption was starting to drive him mad. Claire spent more time talking on the phone to international clients than what was strictly necessary in the company of others.

Football only entertained him for so long before Owen’s eyes dragged towards the clock, watching the time and noting it had been an hour since Claire got up. He didn’t have anything better to do, but Owen felt like he was wasting his time. There could have been a plus to watching the game with Claire curled up beside him; except she was in the other room, on a business call.If he wanted to watch alone, Owen could have gone home and even then Barry was likely there watching the exact same thing. 

He got up to replace the empty bottle in his hand when Owen realised Claire had been gone for an hour-and-a-half. Instead of grabbing another drink, Owen turned towards the study half hoping Claire was done with her call. When he found her, Claire had her legs tucked into the chair, phone pressed to her ear, French falling from her tongue. She tapped at her keyboard with one hand, foot perched precariously on the edge of her desk, providing the force to turn her chair. 

Owen had to knock on the wall to get her attention, Claire’s speech barely faltered as she turned to address him. All she did was raise an eyebrow, guilty expression on her face. Owen turned his wrist, tapping his watch with a finger before mouthing, ‘I’m gonna go’. 

Claire shook her head, holding out a hand to him as she excused herself to the other person on the phone. ‘I’ll be just another minute.’ Claire promised, making Owen shrug. It was gaining up on 10pm, they weren’t going anywhere for the rest of the night. 

He shook his head, shrugging again as a hand dusted over the top of his head. ‘I’ve gotta work tomorrow, should probably head off anyway.’ That had never stopped him before. They were trying not to make a habit of it; but Owen had spent the night on a few occasions when their talk grew long, melding into soft caresses and ravenous kisses that drew too late into the night. 

Claire followed him as he stepped out of the room, foreign words slipping down the phone line. He hadn’t realised that she disconnected the call until Claire’s hand was on his arm, her words English and directed at him. ‘Please don’t go?’ She asked quietly. Until the phone call interrupted them, Claire was enjoying the warmth of his presence and the oncoming tired feeling that was slowly slipping over her. They would have talked the rest of the night away until she fell asleep on his shoulder, Owen carrying her to bed like the gentleman he proved to be. 

‘I can’t come second to your job, Claire.’ Owen moved straight for the source of his issue, half glaring at the phone in her hand. She startled a little, touch pulling away from his as her brow crinkled. ‘I get that it’s important, I really do - I had an important job too. But, it’s ten o’clock and I’m sitting in your house without you. And it’s not the first time, babe. It’s becoming routine.’ He didn’t want to bring up the call that halted dinner the week before. They’d gone out, which was rare, their food ordered when Claire’s phone rang, the woman stepping outside before coming back ten minutes later to say she had to head home. Owen wasn’t going to let her walk, but for a minute he was torn between the food they ordered and leaving because she liked to pull unpaid overtime.

Owen adored the ground she walked on, but Claire was making it increasingly difficult for him to find a place in her life that wasn’t constantly put on hold or uprooted. 

Claire didn’t want him to go, purely because she knew he was mad. She wanted to prove her phone was off, to apologise for the time she had wasted. The other shoe was ready to drop and for once she was desperately willing it not to do so. 

It didn’t matter what she had to say, Owen was determined to leave, kissing her softly on the cheek before he whispered goodnight. He didn’t exactly want to, but after being disregarded for an hour and half, he wasn’t in the mood to keep up appearances. ’Don’t work _too_ hard.’ He tried for a self deprecating smirk, accepting a second kiss as Claire apologised against his lips. 

She sat in bed that night, knees pulled to her chest, arms around her legs wondering how she managed to screw up so badly. She knew exactly how, eyes glaring at her phone in the dark. Claire texted him after he left, asking that he let her know when he got back to his apartment safely. He didn’t respond. Only following it with ‘safe’ twenty minutes later.

Her gut churned, she felt ice-cold despite the relative warmth of her apartment, covers pulled over her legs. Working was part of who Claire was, and why she had gained such a powerful position before others. Because she pushed the limits and made herself available when no one else was. Which, often, was a bad thing. 

[…] 

Claire hadn’t heard from Owen in two days. She didn’t try to call him, nor did he call her. Although it hurt like an unforgiving stab to the gut, and a slight shimmer from their past; Claire thought it was for the best. It was making her sick, regardless, the last two days spent hiding out in her bathroom at work while her assistant diverted any unnecessary meetings in order to cut Claire some slack. She emptied whatever little she managed to scarf down for breakfast until her head ached and her eyes blurred. 

‘Are you sure you’re okay, Claire?’ Zara asked, watching her boss with concern from the doorway. Worry knitted itself across her face, illness was an unknown when it came to Claire. Worse yet, when the woman had been on again off again sick for the last week, refusing to admit it. In Zara’s employment alone, Claire took the standard vacation days to go home and see family on occasional weekends - only if she had to, when her mother threatened or for important birthdays. Never, did Claire take sick leave. She simply didn’t get sick, not even so much as a sniffle whilst in the office. Zara didn’t know how she did it, but clearly, it was catching up to her now. 

‘It’s just a stomach bug.’ Claire defended, waving a hand at Zara with her eyes closed. 

Zara hummed, the sound low almost disapproving. ‘Claire, you’ve been like this for a week and no one else is sick. I’m starting to think it’s more than a stomach bug.’ Claire pulled her hands over her face, slowly peeling her eyes open as she squinted at her assistant. Her stomach dropped, Zara standing in front of her holding a home pregnancy test and a lopsided smile. 

Zara had her suspicions. If Claire interrogated her as to why the woman wouldn’t be able to answer, other than it was completely uncharacteristic for Claire to be sick, let alone the only person in the office complaining of a stomach bug. In her lunch break the day before, Zara discreetly found her way into the chemist, and bought a home test with every intention of slipping it onto her boss’ desk. She lost the nerve, only to regain it when Claire blanched, hand flying to her stomach as she passed Zara’s desk that morning.

‘Oh no, no, no, _no_.’ Claire shook her head. Zara liked to think they were close, secrets passing between them on the odd occasion; stories of conquests when the work day was slow. Zara complained of a lust-less relationship, and Claire started to bemoan an ache in her breasts. 

Zara shrugged, ‘You could take the test, or I could bring in that aromatic chai latte that almost made you throw up to better test my theory.’ Her boss blanched, head shaking for a new reason. Zara’s morning tea kicked her off completely. Claire had been fine, if a little queasy until she walked past Zara’s station, her tea reaching the woman’s nose. 

She groaned, pulling herself up from the floor to reach for the test Zara held out to her. Claire grumbled, half to herself but audible enough for her assistant to hear. They had been safe, and even then it had only been six weeks. 

‘Hey, I’m not saying you are - ’ The girl looked around her, despite the fact that they were in a private bathroom branched from Claire’s office. ‘ - _pregnant_. But, it sure as hell rings true to me. Maybe you weren’t safe enough.’ Her boss’ complexion only lightened, colour still draining from her face. Claire studied the test in her hands more than listened to Zara, rolling the box through her fingers. ‘I’ll be right outside if you need me.’ 

The second Zara stepped out of the room Claire leant against the counter. She took a deep breath, trying to realign the thoughts in her head. Part of her screamed that she wasn’t pregnant, almost demanded like a petulant child banging her hands on the walls. The idea was terrifying and yet Claire was as calm as the clear blue sky on a warm summer day. 

She contemplated the test Zara handed her, mulling the idea over in her mind, despite knowing that the box said it would take five minutes before she would get an answer. Five minutes was all she needed before she drove herself half mad with wonder. 

What where they supposed to do? She and Owen were barely a thing, let alone two people who were ready to commit to the other _and_ a child. Claire had every reason to panic, scramble for breath as she refused to take the test. Instead, there wasn’t a clouded thought in her mind. There were two options; have the baby and raise it, or don’t. Without knowing if she was pregnant or not, Claire was yet to make up her mind. It felt like such a college situation, two people who barely knew each other suddenly became pregnant. There was a scriptwriter out there who wanted that rom-com on their hands, desperate to trail their lives for a flash of the realistic. This wasn’t the kind of situation a thirty-year-old found herself in. 

Instead of pulling the test out of the box and ripping the paper it was wrapped in, Claire called her doctor. She half begged for the woman to fit her in at the nearest opportunity. With an appointment scheduled, Claire grabbed her things. 

Zara watched her with expectant eyes, when Claire rounded her desk, pulling her office door behind her. ‘I’m taking lunch early,’ She told her assistant, shaking her head softly as she rolled her eyes. Watching the desks around her, Zara didn’t ask. 

[…] 

Claire should have expected the result she got. Her mind had already made itself up before her doctor grinned alongside a cheery congratulations. The world was different when she stepped out on the street. Somehow Claire felt lighter, hands full of pamphlets Joan had given her. She had options, Claire knew this, and yet the sun hit her skin and she felt content with the budding life inside of her. 

Zara followed Claire into her office when she returned, grin on her face. ‘You took your time.’ The assistant mused, back pressed against the door. Claire nodding, humming that it was a beautiful day. ‘So,’ Zara began, ‘What’s the verdict?’ 

‘This doesn’t leave my office,’ Claire warned, watching her assistant bounce on the spot, teeth in her lip trying to hold back a grin. Zara was loyal, Claire knew that. Regardless, the words needed to be said. ‘I’m pregnant.’ The girl half squealed, grinning from ear to ear as she sat across from Claire at her desk. 

‘So, who is he?’ 

Claire squinted at her computer monitor. ‘What makes you think he’s sticking around?’ She had told Zara a little about Owen, enough to know that they saw each other frequently and had known each other once upon a time. 

Zara scoffed, ‘You would have taken the whole day off to get an abortion if it wasn’t someone you cared about. Also, some guy came in while you were out. Said he was sorry about the other day, and sent those.’ Her assistant leant back in her chair, long finger pointing at a bouquet of flowers Claire hadn’t even noticed. Zara didn’t fail to comment on that. Claire rose from her chair, crossing the room tentatively to check the card as she marvelled at the eclectic taste in vibrant flora. 

‘Your babies are going to be adorable.’ Claire was a beauty in her own right she had the height that matched curves for days, her thighs not easily unforgiving in a tight skirt or tailored trousers. Her skin, though pale, managed to glow and her hair was warm enough to thaw any cold dead heart. The man who had sheepishly stopped in front of her desk, after being shown there by one of the girls from receptions’ first floor was a rugged adonis. Zara didn’t need to point out the muscle under his honey skin or his shaggy hair that was growing inches too long. His eyes matched Claire’s and his smile would have sparked the deepest mirth within her. Where he seemed large and strong, he also gave off an air of complete gentle nature, eager to please and happy for a laugh. Children from that duo were going to be something else entirely. Zara was a little excited at the thought. 

A blush crept across her cheeks, card pressed to her chest as Claire failed an attempt to roll her eyes. She wasn’t even convinced that she would keep the _baby_. ‘His name is Owen.’ It was all she gave the other woman, not willing to reveal their shared path. Zara chuckled, taking the hint somewhat unwillingly before she got up. 

‘Well, Miss Dearing. He seems like a catch.’ Zara shrugged, she knew the flowers were an apology Owen didn’t have to make. Claire told her about the issue they had, her phone attachment too serious for his liking - or anyones, Zara had added. It wasn’t Owen who should have been sending flowers, but rather Claire draping herself in them and promising the best night of apology sex she could dish out. At least, that was Zara’s opinion on the matter. Now, she would have settled for her boss telling the puppy of a man that she was expecting. 

‘Do yourself a favour,’ the woman stopped in the doorway, ‘Don’t let him slip through your fingers too easily.’ 

[…]

He sent her a text that evening; ‘ _Did you get my flowers?_ ’ Claire swore she could see the wounded pout and puppy dog eyes through the phone. It was quickly followed by; ‘ _Can I come over?’_ Claire had every intention to spend the following two days curled in her bed, mulling over the decision she had to make. 

Even though she _needed_ the distance, Claire couldn’t find it within herself to push him away. She only wanted to pull him closer. 

Her answer was short, simple, positive. It felt like hours passed before he knocked on her door, her heart racing at the sound. Claire moved slowly through her apartment, unable to pick up her feet.She had stepped in the door from work an hour ago, her mind and body completely exhausted. Shehad every intention of napping for an hour before drawing herself a bath to nap in a little longer. 

Owen grinned from ear to ear when she pulled the door open, both hands behind his back. His expression dropped when he laid eyes on her, she was paler than usual, unkept, unwell. ‘You okay?’ He asked, watching as she swallowed roughly before nodding. He had given her a few days to think, just as he needed them himself. They were playing with more than they realised, not just two people who liked the other, but children who had _loved_ each other. ‘I, ah, I called my ma the other week, told her about you and she, um - she sent this down.’ Owen pulled his hands out from behind his back, a faded bear clutched between his fingers. 

Claire took one look at it and knew exactly what it was. ‘Frances.’ She whispered, eyes on the bear remembering the days when his fur was the softest she had ever felt. He had changed in twenty years, looking a little rough around the edges, the colour of his fur faded, limbs a little loose. The stitching that made up his nose had come undone, a strand hanging from its place. 

‘I’ve always had him. Even when I went off to recruit training, I didn’t want to take Frances to Iraq with me, so he’s been with mom for a little bit. He was safer there.’

Frances the Bear had once belonged to Claire, a toy she eyed in the shop and practically begged her father for. She had him long before Owen came around but it was the one toy in her room he reached for first. Without fail, no matter where Frances was perched, Owen would find him and hold him in his lap. The morning Owen left, the remnants of his family packed into their car, the boy standing beside it, teary eyed Claire thrust the bear into his hands. 

‘ _So I’m always with you,_ ’ She had told him, trying to push out a smile that was struggling to see sunlight through despair. Owen had held onto the bear, clutching it tight to his chest before he said a final goodbye. 

Claire couldn’t believe he still had it. A stuffed toy, of all things he could have kept from his youth it was _that_ bear. 

She couldn’t help the tears that bubbled. Claire half blamed it on hormones she didn’t know she had until two days ago, as hot tears quickly started to pour down her face. ‘Whoa, hey, it’s just a bear.’ Owen told her, dropping to his knees in front of her. He was ready to beg for her forgiveness, sorry for walking out in frustration the other night. Owen was willing to do whatever he needed to, especially if she was crying. 

For a minute it seemed like she wouldn’t stop, tears turning into sobs as Claire covered her face with both hands. Owen was still on his knees, hands on her elbows as he watched her breakdown, unsure where he needed to start in order to fix it. 

Claire dropped a hand to her stomach, a reflex she didn’t even know she had until recent days. ’It’s not _just_ a bear,’ she sniffled, ‘It’s Frances Bear.’ Claire reached for the creature, fingers itching to touch it. 

Something dislodged in her chest, the cold hard part of her that decided she wasn’t going to talk to Owen about this. Claire wanted to keep it fossilised in her chest, to let Owen move on without knowing. She could figure this out on her own, what she wanted to do with the bundle of cells inside of her, waiting to form a life. She would get rid of it, or raise, Claire wasn’t entirely sure - but she wouldn’t force that on Owen. Her life style was clearly too career orientated for him. It would be the same for a baby. Neither would work; especially not together. 

Without strictly realising, Claire studied the bear in her hands, bringing him to her face to inhale the years he had passed through. Owen was talking, telling her about where the bear had lived in each house when the words tumbled from her, spilling out like an upturned bag; ‘I’m pregnant’. She cracked, lines creasing in her face as Claire tried to hold back the tears. 

Owen was still talking. He stopped mid sentence when he registered her words. He blinked, staring at her with a mild case of concern before his features softened, meaning shrouding him in slight excitement. ‘But, we used protection.’ He looked at her, confusion bubbling with amusement as a dazed smile slowly crept across his face. Claire shrugged, _well that didn’t work_. He tried to recall a time where they didn’t reach for a condom, conjuring one morning in his head where they pawed at each other on her couch minutes before she had to collect her mother. His smile turned mischievous for a split second before it turned back to his dopey wonder. 

Owen had her in his arms in a heartbeat, Claire’s feet off the ground as he spun her in a slow circle, his lips pressing kisses to her cheek and neck. They had only been together for six weeks, not long enough to determine whether someone would be okay with this sort of thing. A baby was huge and this early in the game made it a little alarming. But, Owen was willing to pull out all the stops he needed in order to make it work. He adored Claire, whether she was nine-years-old or thirty, whether she worked too much or hardly spoke to him. It frustrated the crap out of him, he hated being pushed to the side, but they could make this work. Pregnant with his child was a whole different realm of admiration, his heart practically aching in his chest, ready to burst. 

Had anyone asked if he wanted children Owen would have gruffed a short no. He wanted children, he just didn’t think at thirty-one he was likely to find anyone he could happily settle down with. Owen too, had seen a dark side of the world he frankly didn’t want to see again. Bringing a child into that, knowing there were children in suffering in Syria, having seen them with his own eyes. He didn’t think he could do it. 

Claire was something else entirely. He knew her like he knew the back of his hand despite twenty years having passed between them. He could do this, he could bring a child into the world, so long as Claire was its mother. There was excitement in that, not only a baby but he had seen pictures of her with infant versions of her nephews; Claire looked good with kids. She looked good without them too, but Owen couldn’t help but recall the images. It had complete potential to be a mess, the two of them breaking under the pressure. But, there was a chance it would work. A chance that Claire was as marvellous as he always thought she was; their child a brilliant spark from that. The pros outweighed the cons, at least in Owen’s thoughts. 

Owen stopped when he realised Claire wasn’t reacting as well as he was. ‘You don’t want it?’ He asked, coming to a full stop, his grip on her relaxing. 

Claire shook her head, ‘I - I don’t know yet’. She bit her lip, eyes buried in his. ‘But, I do know spinning me around makes me want to vomit.’ She told him on a slight laugh, explaining the far off look in her eyes and the sudden change of colour in her face. 

‘Let’s lie you down then,’ He shooed her down the hall, despite Claire’s protests that she was fine. Admittedly, before he arrived she had been curled in her bed, eyes squeezed closed, willing the nausea away. They called it Morning Sickness but it was currently 6:15pm and she still wanted to dispel her lunch. 

‘I think I do,’ Claire started softly, crawling onto her bed, Owen behind her tucking a blanket over her legs. He hummed, not really listening, too focused on _her_. ‘I think I do want to keep it.’ She repeated, a little clearer, voice still soft. Owen curled up beside her, arm tucked around Claire. ‘My life is where most women want it to be before they have a baby.’

‘You don’t have to just because other people want it.’ Owen offered, fingers running lines across her hip, his head leaning on her shoulder. 

‘But, I’m here, I’m pregnant already. Why not?’ Claire, in recent years, never thought that she would think like that. There had been a part of her that knew she wanted children, one day given that the circumstances were right. She and Owen weren’t together very long, but the circumstances were right. She wouldn’t need to sacrifice her ability to ladder climb when she was already a rung down from the top. Claire had built the respect she needed, the life, the financial security. She just missed a constant partner, someone who would stay day in and out no matter how much she worked.

Faintly, Claire remembered the warm days of their second summer. They had only just begun building their new fort, the two of them lying on their backs lazily in the sun. Owen’s sister was born the previous day, tiny pink baby now screaming down the walls of his house. He was in love. Claire remembered the fondness the little boy held for his sister, while Karen and Claire peered into her crib, faces akin to disgust. It wasn’t that they didn’t like Mary, it was that they didn’t know what to think of her exactly. Owen thought the world. 

In the sun, their winter tanned skin finally tasting the warm earth Owen asked her about children. If young, eight-year-old Claire thought she would grow up and have a house full of babies. ‘ _No thanks_ ,’ She had replied with disinterest, at first, before sobering and saying, _‘Maybe just one?’_ Her mind wasn’t entirely made up but as summer progressed, Mary Grady started to grow on her. 

‘ _Do you think we would have babies?’_ Owen had asked as they laid on their stomachs in his living room, making ridiculous eyes at the infant. 

‘ _Ew,’_ She scoffed quickly, _‘Owen, you’re my best friend - not my_ boyfriend _!_ ’ Claire had squealed, shaking the rattle for his baby sister and ending the conversation entirely. But, she had thought about it. In the days where all they did was pay with Mary, the weather too wild to venture outside. Claire wondered, briefly, what having children would be like. 

‘We’re not working.’ Claire broke the quiet softly, her words decided. ‘That’s okay. I can do this alone. I think. We can work out a roster, if you’re interested, every third day or something like that.’ 

Owen reacted immediately, posture changing as he stilled beside her. ‘Whoa, whoa, no. Claire, what are you talking about? This, us, it’s new. It’s going to take some getting used to. And sure, I’m mad about your phone because it feels like I take second place to that. But, it’s something we can work through. I’m not just going to give up like that, not at all.’ He sighed, breath shaking a little. ‘I know you don’t want to have your heart broken. But, Claire, I promise I won’t hurt you.’ 

It was like the fates knew when to intervene, Claire’s phone ringing obnoxiously, interrupting Owen and not for the first time. She reached for it, noticing the way his body stiffened, hand tightening it’s hold on her hip. She played with his fingers there, trying to lighten his grasp as she answered the phone. 

It was over in a second. Claire greeting her client politely, french again. Owen couldn’t believe it, anger burning in his belly as disappointment sparked a match in his mind. Before he could pull away from her, Claire’s hand anchoring him to her hip, she hung up. 

‘That was quick.’ Owen remarked as Claire shifted onto her back, looking up at him. 

She hummed, ‘Yeah I, um, told them that my hours were no longer accurate and that they had to call someone else.’ Owen stared, unsure if it was the same Claire beside him. Had someone swapped her in the last few days, trading her for one who knew the difference between home and work. ‘What were you saying about promising not to break my heart?’ A slow smile slipped across her cheeks, teeth worrying her lip. She was worried about her job, Owen could tell. But for the first time, Claire put someone else first. 

He kissed her easily, slow and soft as his body shifted over hers. ‘Well,’ Owen started, hand leaving her hip for a split second. ‘I was thinking, boy or girl; Frances.’ He waved the bear beside their heads, smile wide as he chuckled. Claire shook her head, laughing in protest as he dropped the bear and turned his attention to eliciting moans rather than glee. 

‘I’m not naming my child Frances!’ She argued, voice soft. 

Owen pulled back, small frown on his face. ‘What? It’s good for _your_ bear but not _our_ baby?’ He teased, kissing her cheek as he did so. 

‘Frances is not a baby name.’ She fought back, fingers in his hair. ‘What’s next? Eugenie?’ Owen’s face lit up, glee mapping it’s way across his features. 

‘Perfect! I’m sold, do you think we can sign the birth certificate now?’ His laugh was bright, lit like the sun at dawn as Owen pressed sweet kisses down her body until he reached her stomach, pushing her shirt up to touch his lips to her skin. 

Claire sighed, her fingers sliding through his hair. They shouldn’t have been as calm as she felt, lying there with Owen pressing kisses to her stomach. She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply as Owen recited the importance of Frances Bear to the flat plane of her skin. 

‘You’re okay with this?’ She asked him after silence settled over the room, Owen’s story to for their child complete. He had already started his case, and yet the slightest anxiety flared in the back of her mind. Owen hummed, head on her hip, fingers tracing soft lines across her skin. ‘It’s not what I would have wanted … Not the way I would have planned.’ Claire prompted, using the words in hope it would spur him on, a hand gently tugging on his hair. 

Owen hummed again, the sound a soft grunt in the back of his throat. ‘Honestly?’ Owen asked, waiting for her grip on his hair to tighten. ‘It’s not the way I would have planned it either. But, things in my life don’t usually go according to plan.’ 

‘Mine do.’ Claire gruffed, voice light, humour tinted at the edges. _Everything_ went exactly to plan when it concerned Claire Dearing not even a hair fell out of place. 

Owen chuckled. ‘We can do this, you know.’ He lifted his head from her hip, not before leaving a last kiss to the natural curve of her belly. Owen put her shirt back in place, sliding back into his place beside her. Claire’s face was twisted with indecision, ‘No, really. We can do this. Sure, it’s not ideal but a kid with your smarts and my … - ’ He hesitated,

‘- clumsiness?’ Claire teased, earning herself a nip of Owen’s teeth on her shoulder. 

‘Damn good looks.’ Owen corrected with a laugh, ‘This kid’ll be the luckiest human to walk the earth’. Claire mumbled something sarcastic Owen didn’t quite catch. ‘I’m not kidding, honey. I promised to come back and marry you one day. If that’s what it takes to prove I’m serious about you and this baby then so be it. We can make it work.’ She hummed again, fingers still in his hair, tracing the shell of his ear. ‘It’ll be just like when were were kids. Except we’re the adults now.’

[…]

Since he was ten-years-old, Owen Grady was convinced that he would one day build his own house. Standing across the street from a red brick colonial home in Southeast Chevy Chase, Owen admired his handy-work. They didn’t build it from the ground up, instead fell in love with the property and gutted the inside before starting from the bare bones. It was finished, finally, the last coat of paint on the final guest room, everything else in it’s place.

It had taken them way too long to get there. 

Owen took his promise seriously setting out on renovating their new home until it was up to Claire’s tastes. He wanted everything perfect for the arrival of their daughter, her nursery fit for a princess, the rest of the house deserving of a queen. 

‘What do you think, Frankie?’ He turned to the girl by his side. 

The strawberry blonde child was no taller than his knees, dressed in similar cargo pants and a paint speckled tee. She hummed, shoulders shrugging, one hand holding a paint tin full of jellybeans, the other in it. ‘We live there now?’ The three-year-old asked, grinning up at her father as she chewed on an assortment of colours. 

Frances Ann Grady was a treasure Owen hoped to never lose sight off. He won the argument in naming their child after Claire’s stuffed bear Owen had adored in his youth. He wouldn’t let her live it down when she finally gave in, their daughter a few hours old, tucked into the warmth of her mother’s arms. Nothing else seemed to fit and when Claire finally whispered _Frances_ into the room, Owen echoed _Frankie_ back and the little girl mewled in response. She was a whirlwind of complete perfection from the get go; exactly like her mother in every way, shape and form. Even her imperfections made up all the parts of her whole, finishing off the puzzle. 

Frankie didn’t talk much as an infant, seemingly behind the other children in her playgroup who were already blabbing on in baby talk, real words slowly mixing in. When she did ask for something it was always once, and never quite comfortably. When all her friends were fluent in an appropriate level of English, Frankie was developing a very clear stutter. It frustrated Claire to no end, the woman sure it was a sign of terrible parenting; she and Owen fighting too much, their daughter too scared to speak. They were promised she would grow out of it. At three, Frankie was still stuttering. Claire learnt to look past it as a reflection of the way she raised her child, Owen was convinced it had nothing to do with how they parented her. It was just who Frankie was, whether she moved on from it or not. 

She stuttered on everything, the first sound of a word, and the middle of longer ones. Frankie always managed to push through but there were a few words in particular she could never say from start to finish, stutter at all. Asking for snacks at lunch time became a patient game of letting the little girl try her hardest to get the word out, or come up with an alternative expression. If anything, Owen knew they were good at that. He and Claire dropped everything the second Frankie started talking, intent on catching every word the child tried to say. They had to, it wasn’t like they had a choice. Not only were they her parents, but Frankie had a habit of getting frustrated with herself. If they let her stutter unattended it would lead to tears. She was at her worst when tired, which for a three-year-old was almost every day, and that alone was enough to set off the emotional bomb inside the child that freaked when she couldn’t express herself. 

He chuckled at the girl, scooping her up off the ground in an attempt to take away her tin of sugar as it transferred from her hand to his. ‘I think so.’ He kissed her cheek. It had taken _way_ longer than he expected. Claire wouldn’t let Owen live that down. Their budget had been blown too far out of proportion, meaning Owen had to cut down on the trades he’d hired to do the work he couldn’t. Once upon a time, he dreamed of being a carpenter, himself in order to make this job easier. Owen never made it to trade school, instead he shipped himself off to a battlefield the second he completed recruit training. Labour wasn’t the only issue, Owen wanted everything the way Claire wanted, which meant waiting for the right stone to be cut and polished before they could set theirkitchen and bathroom countertops. It was worth the wait if it meant everything was perfect. 

In the meantime, they remained in Claire’s Georgetown apartment. It was spacious enough that they weren’t stepping on each other’s toes, and Frankie still managed to flourish in the confines Claire thought was likely to stunt her growth. So what if the room they had picked - perfect for a nursery - was never used as such. The little girl they had intended it for was still going to sit in the large windows, and play with her trucks and dolls, she would still be read to before bed in that very room, and comforted when she was upset.

‘Do you think Mama will be happy?’ He asked, feeling the girl sigh, her weight drooping in his arms. They’d spent the better part of their together-day, painting the guest bedroom, a task Owen wouldn’t admit in full to Claire in fear of the paint fume lecture she seemingly loved to give. The windows were open, Frankie was fine. 

Frankie shook her head, lips loudly smacking her answer as she stuttered around the first letter; ’Nope’. 

‘What, why not?’ Owen asked, unable to keep the humour out of his voice. From day one, Frankie never failed to surprise him, or her mother for that matter. 

His daughter shrugged, blue eyes pouring into her fathers as she touched a sticky hand to his cheek. ‘You take too long, Daddy.’ He laughed, joy pouring from his lungs as the little girl blinked. 

‘I do take too long, don’t I?’ She was always pushing him to hurry up and get out the door for playdates and daycare, even his own job once he went back to work. 

‘You took longer than me!’ The girl had two meanings in that, the first; the house project had existed a few months before she was born, Claire was in active labour for eighteen hours before Frankie decided to make her entrance into the world. She was pushing the limits of her residency making it to 41 weeks gestation, with doctors ready for an emergency caesarean if need be. There was worry, momentarily that the girl hadn’t made it before she was born, the progress of her birth slow and torturous. When she finally decided to make a move, much to the relief of her exhausted mother the girl was healthy and entirely too unhappy to be outside her mother’s womb. Claire, when Frankie asked, would tell the girl she was in labour for three days, her first twinge of early labour sparking almost seventy hours before the girl’s eventual arrival. She liked to bemoan the child’s entrance into the world, Frankie giggling beside her as she refused to get out of bed for kinder, happy to lounge with mom and dad. Just like she would have been happy to remain in utero until she was good and ready, rather than evicted. 

The second meaning in his young child’s words referred to the rate in which Owen painted their home. Frankie helped, paintbrush in hand, tackling everything that was her height and below. Already, she was faster than her father; her technique a little off but manageable. 

He tickled her for toddler sass as Claire’s car pulled into the driveway, the woman stepping out. Owen crossed the road, daughter safely in his arms before he put her down, allowing the child to run up the driveway to fly into her mother’s arms. 

‘Home finished!’ Frankie squealed, arms in the air as Claire held her. She looked to Owen in disbelief, asking if the girl was right. They spent every Friday night in the home they bought three-years-ago just for it to feel lived in. Claire hated that they poured so much money into something they barely used, but Owen refused to let them move in until everything was finished. His reasoning was that nothing would get done once all their personal belongings were in their respective new spaces.

He had told her on Monday that it was close to done, finishing touches ready to be applied for a move in within the week. Claire didn’t believe him. There was always something; not entirely Owen’s fault that ended up halting move in day. Be it plumbing, fixtures, or paint. He had promised that they would be in the house in January of that year; it was October. 

Owen nodded, ‘One-hundred per cent done. Unless you see something you want -‘ 

‘-No, no, no. I’m happy with everything as it is’. If she was being completely honest, Claire would admit to stalling the finishing processes when she changed her mind on a paint colour she - a few weeks earlier - had adored. 

Owen gestured towards the door, suggesting they head inside before the October chill settled into their clothes. The house was already furnished; partly, they had upgraded on a few things that were evidently going to be too small to move from the apartment to seven-bedroom colonial. A new living and dining set replaced what could now be sold or donated from the apartment. The living-room was finished first, Claire’s signature pictures already hanging on the walls, rugs down, lamps plugged in. A corner was set up for Frankie, her toys still a mess from her play earlier that afternoon. 

‘It’s really finished?’ Claire sighed, cheek pressed to her daughter’s head as Frankie made hands at her father to share the jellybeans he was still holding onto. Owen slipped two into her small palm before his hand found it’s place on the small of Claire’s back. 

He echoed her words softly, marvelling at the setting sunlight streaking through the windows. ‘I promised you.’ He whispered, kissing her cheek. So far, in Owen’s opinion at least, he had made good on his promises. 

Claire was still in the bad opinion of marriage, Karen and Scott’s relationship finally falling apart after coasting on rocky waters for years too long. Owen didn’t mind so much, they had Frankie and each other. So long as he was sleeping in Claire’s bed, the woman warm by his side, he was happy. That and he’d managed to get Claire to wear a ring regardless of her thoughts on marriage. It was an unintentional find, an antique piece he spotted while looking for a birthday gift on an outing with Frankie whilst she was still a newborn. Owen couldn’t help himself, it seemed so perfectly Claire that he bought it regardless of what he thought her reaction would be. She found it while he was out, presenting it when he came back through the door. Owen didn’t think she would accept it let alone slide it onto the right finger and never remove it. 

Claire chuckled, ‘Only took you twenty-three years.’ 

‘Too slow!’ Frankie giggled, squeezing her eyes closed tight with her childish laugh. 

Both adults turned on her, surprised at the words and giggles from the child’s mouth. She knew exactly what she was saying. ’Frankie!’ They scolded with mirth, fingers reaching to tickle the girl as she shrieked. 

The girl, in her charm, changed the topic moaning that her tummy was grumbling. When her mother echoed her sentiments, placing the girl on her feet, Owen revealed that dinner was already waiting for them. 

They ate on the couch despite being determined not to teach Frankie any bad habits. Friday dinners spent camping in the living room had become a thing before Owen and Claire could even get control of it. They succumbed, repeating to the child that only on Friday’s could she eat her dinner away from the dining table. 

With dinner complete, dishes sitting in the dishwasher and leftovers firmly sealed and placed in the fridge, Owen and Claire relaxed. Frankie begged for a movie, the Pixar film rolling across the screen as they watched in relative comfort. The girl had climbed into her father’s lap, body small and warm, her head on his chest as they lay, stretched out. 

‘Do we gots to start again?’ Frankie asked in the middle of the film. Owen hummed, turning his eyes from Woody and Buzz to watch his daughter’s face. ‘When my baby brother comes, do we gots to start our house again?’ There was a slight frown etched into the corners of her mouth, Owen unintentionally copying the genetic look. 

He pushed strawberry blonde hair out of her face, eyes squinting at her a little. ‘No baby brother is coming?’ Owen voiced with confusion, his mind not completely caught up to the potential of her words. The girl stuttered around a ‘ _but mama said_ ’ as her father processed. 

He peered past his daughter’s head to look at the woman he considered a wife - without the paperwork. Claire was grinning, not looking at him exactly, but rather the back of their daughter’s head. The flare on her cheeks gave her away, there was a secret nestled between them, and Frankie just let it out of the bag. ’It might be a baby sister, Frances.’ The girl grumbled in response. 

‘Hang on,’ Owen stuttered, still watching Claire as she bit into her lip, trying to keep back the megawatt smile that was threatening to break through. He sat up, hand on Frankie’s back, ‘Are you pregnant?!’ He couldn’t help the slight raise in his voice, sound breaking as the subtext started to sink in. Owen could feel the tears burning in his eyes, ready to cry regardless of what her response was.

Claire nodded, teeth still in her lip as she grinned. ‘Yeah,’ Her voice was quiet, cracking alongside his. They almost fell apart the two years before, tension surmounting between them both, breaking the glass ceiling they lived beneath. Owen and Claire recovered, licked their wounds and apologised for their inability to stand the other. Owen was committed to staying there by her side, Frankie holding their hands. It took some readjusting, but they figured it out. It was nothing like how he thought it would be when they were young. The house took time, their relationship rocked the boat more than it sailed on calm seas. She got sick of him, and he sick of her more often than not until they managed to sort out their differences. 

Frankie made it worth it. Their little ray of sunshine kept them together on bad days, both of her parents knowing that if she wasn’t there they would have gone their separate ways. Nothing was worth having unless you worked hard for it, or at least that’s what Owen liked to believe. When they were good they were great and now more than ever the good days outnumbered the bad. 

He would have been happy if it was the three of them together forever, nothing else added. But the thought of another baby jump started his heart, telling Owen there was so much more space for another life, for more love. If Frankie knew it meant her mother had told her and Claire would only have told the girl if she was sure it was what she wanted. Owen didn’t need to hesitate in his excitement or ask her quietly if she was okay with it all. 

Owen leant over - Frankie squished between them - and kissed the woman he had been in love with for twenty-six years. He promised her once, when they were young, that he would come back for her. He promised a house and a life that was a lot harder to earn than expected but well worth the wait. He promised her dreams she didn’t know she wanted, filled with pets and children and happy laughter. He had made good on two of those things - the dog was still questionable, but with a second child announced Owen couldn’t help but think they were exactly where he wished they could have been when he was ten. 

 


End file.
